Death and the Matron
by gravewriter71
Summary: Book 2 of the Newsman Trilogy; sequel to Love Reign O'er News. Newsie's dead mother disapproves, and vows to separate Newsie and Gina; a Museum exhibit of Muppasaurs and a Muppet mummy, curated by Dr Phil Van Neuter, proves ridiculously dangerous; and everything goes sideways at a charity show featuring the Amazing Mumford. All the regular Muppet cast included in the chaos!
1. Chapter 1

The fangs looked as long as he was tall. Gulping reflexively, the Muppet Newsman stared up in awe at the reconstructed skeleton of the prehistoric terror, _Muppetasaurus Tex._ The dark-stained fossil recently unearthed in the oilfields of west Texas had been pieced together, identified (after much scientific debate) as one of the Jurassic ancestors of modern Muppet monsters, and shipped carefully to New York for this special exhibit. Newsie had of course been thrilled to be the very first reporter to be allowed access to the exhibit before it opened this coming weekend to the general public; it was the only time he'd _ever_ been first for something this big. However, the excitement and pride and worry that touched off in him was offset at this moment by the sheer anxiety shivering in his foam, just staring up at the monstrous bones. The curators had mounted the skeleton in what may have been a typical pose for it when alive: crouched on all fours, gigantic claws splayed, tail arched up and the heavy spikes of the tail-tip gleaming, its long neck raised and its head turned. It made Newsie think of a large cat interrupted at its dinner, swishing its tail as it looked around to see what the problem was, despite the fact that its bony features seemed more reptilian than feline. Its jaws were slightly open, and he shuddered at the mental image of gore dripping from those terrible teeth. He certainly would _not_ have disturbed its feeding for anything!

The renewed attention bestowed on the Muppets had made the Museum board decide to collect the various specimens of prehistoric and proto-Muppet species that existed around the country and bring them all together, here on the third floor of the American Museum of Natural History, for this special exhibit. Newsie turned away from the Muppasaur, nervous enough about turning his back to it to dart glances over his shoulder repeatedly, to see Museum workers on ladders affixing a banner to the entryway of this gallery. FELT AND BONES: MUPPET MILLENNIA, the banner proclaimed. Inspired, Newsie waved at Rhonda the rat as she tentatively crept around the cordoned-off base of another fossil Muppasaur. "Hey! We should do the stand-up right here!" he called to her.

The blonde-haired rat scurried a wide route around the _M. Tex_ and stood beside Newsie, staring critically at the banner while the workers struggled to raise it. Some marketing genius had decided it ought to be made from a long, wide sheet of bright green felt, and it wasn't cooperating too well for the hangers. "What, with the banner? _Booorrr-ing._ C'mon, let's at least get a teaser shot of Fangy back there!"

The Newsman glanced back at the Muppasaur, which towered head and neck over the other fossils in the exhibit. "We can't. The directors specifically forbade _any_ shots of it until the exhibit opens."

Rhonda sighed. "What if we start with the stupid sign, then you walk this way and we pan with you, and you finish right at the foot of it? They'd let us show a _foot,_ I bet! Talk about a teaser! Claws like that, they'll have every kid under twelve beating the doors down Saturday morning!"

Newsie considered it, trying to think objectively, although the very idea of standing anywhere near those vicious-looking toes (or were they fingers?) unnerved him. "Oh, come on," Rhonda griped, paws on her hips as she glared up at him, "What are they gonna do, whine about it when it gets them better publicity on the six o'clock news? I doubt it!"

The Newsman nodded. As usual, the rat had a good point. Annoying though she could be, he had to admit, her instincts for setting up a story were as sharp as her teeth. "All right. Where's Tony?" he asked, looking around for their cameraman.

Rhonda blew out an exasperated breath. "I keep telling you, his name's _Tommy!_ Sheesh! You really _have_ had way too many things dropped on your head…"

"Sorry," Newsie grumbled, fishing out the notes he'd made in his small spiral notebook for the story. "I keep confusing him with an old roommate…"

A large, three-toed sloth Muppet ambled over, his digital videocamera perched somehow upon one rounded shoulder. "I'm here," he yawned. "What're we shooting?" Then he slowly noticed the _M. Tex_ towering behind him. "Like, wow, dude…that's a really big jungle gym. Why's it in the Museum?"

"Point over here, at Pretty in Plaid, Tommy, okay?" Rhonda snapped, and then tugged on Newsie's elbow to get him lined up in front of the workers still struggling with the banner for the opening shot. The Newsman scowled at her, though he was by now used to her frequent demeaning sobriquets. "I swear, it's _always_ 4:20 to him… Okay. That's good. Start there." She squeaked loudly at the workers, "Hey guys, can ya hold it up a little so we can actually _read_ it, huh? – Yeah. That's good. Now hold it, and smile for the news! Tommy? Roll it in four, three, two…"

The Newsman straightened up a bit, clearing his throat, looking right into the lens as the camerasloth began taping. "This is your Muppet Newsman with a special report! This Saturday, a new exhibit opens at the American Museum of Natural History which purports to shed some light on an historically murky subject: Muppet evolution." He looked over his shoulder once, gesturing with the hand holding his notes at the workers on ladders, both straining to hold their smiles and the ends of the heavy banner. "Which came first, the felt or the bones? Well, science is still debating that question; it is an issue which has been hotly debated for decades, after the first few prehistoric Muppet creatures were dragged from the tar pits at the original site of Madison Square Gardens here in Manhattan!" Behind him as he spoke, the workmen groaned quietly. One of them finally tumbled off his ladder with a crash, and the banner flopped down over him. Irritated at the noise, Newsie glanced at Rhonda, about to ask for another take, but his producer shook her tiny head, gesturing for him to continue. Thrown off a bit, Newsie checked his notes.

"Er…ahem. The world of archaeology and Muppetology was further thrown off balance just last year, with the discovery of a group of mummies in a deep cave in Indonesia. The mummies were proven to indeed belong to a previously unknown subgroup, _Muppeti quidquid,_ and arguments over where exactly they fall in the line of Muppet evolution are still fiercely raging!" He walked slowly as he delivered the last sentence, the camera tracking him, until he stood before a clear case with one of the mummies laying inside. The weird burial goods beside the mummy puzzled him: a cup with two handles, a pair of staring eyeballs made of jade and ivory, and a fragile-looking piece of parchment flattened in protective plastic, presumably some ceremonial text fragment. He had interviews scheduled with a couple of scientists tomorrow; no doubt they'd explain the items to him. However, the mummy itself really, deeply creeped him out, and Newsie only glanced at it before moving on. The wrinkled gray felt over the shrunken foam body was at once horrific and oddly familiar, an unpleasant combination; Newsie didn't even want to look at it again. Disturbed, he checked his notes once more. He knew Rhonda hated it when he had to rely on them, but honestly, he was no science geek…and that _thing_ in the case was genuinely freakish. Even if it _was_ a Muppet. A dead, mummified Muppet… With a shudder, the Newsman tried to regain some sense of professionalism.

"Muppets and Muppet artifacts will all be featured, most of them for the first time ever, anywhere, in this amazing exhibit, which spans the millennia going back to the age of the Muppasaurs! Curator Dr Phil Van Neuter promises something to teach and tantalize every age group, from children to the elderly, from Muppets to mice. We'll have more about this astounding new collection in tomorrow's special report! For now, from the Museum, I'm the Newsman, for KRAK." His long stroll ended up right next to the back foot of the _M. Tex,_ and he forced himself to stay still and direct his close at the camera, even though every instinct in his body urged him to flee, so near to those horrendous claws. Rhonda gestured for a cut, and Newsie immediately stepped away from the fossil, looking up at it. Its head was still turned up and over its back, not down at the smaller, much more human-looking Muppet in a blue-and-green plaid check sports coat.

"At least you waited 'til the cut to freak out," Rhonda complained at him, already making the sloth turn the camera viewscreen down so she could watch the playback. "It ain't gonna bite you, Newsie!"

"Never trust a monster," he snapped back at her, adjusting his tie and his dignity a bit.

"Yeah, yeah. Did you happen to miss the fact that it's _dead?"_ she squeaked back.

"Are you sure that makes a difference?" Newsie grumbled, walking over to see the footage for himself. "I don't suppose you ever noticed that weird creature hanging around the Muppet Theatre, that blue dragon thing…"

"Who, Uncle Deadly? He's cool. At least _he_ knows how to deliver a performance in a cool and collected fashion!"

The Newsman gave her a deep scowl. Ignoring him, Rhonda patted the sloth's arm. "Yeah, yeah, that's great, Tommy. Let's wrap it up. I gotta dinner date with a hedgehog on Wall Street."

Momentarily taken aback, Newsie stared at her as the rat checked her delicate diamond-studded watch, pulled a hairbrush from her purse, and quickly teased her perm. "You…you're dating a hedgehog?" he asked.

"So? You're dating a human," the rat pointed out.

Newsie shook his head. "No, I wasn't judging! I'm just…well…you? With something that timid?" Relationships continued to mystify the Newsman, despite recent success in his own love life; he'd been living with Gina for a few months now, but her continued interest in him amazed the still-shy Muppet.

Rhonda shrugged. "It was an online-dating match. We'll see how it goes. He's a broker in a trading firm downtown, though, so I'm letting _him_ pay for dinner!"

"A stockbroker?" Newsie tried to picture a suit overlaid on all those little prickles. "Er…what does he specialize in?"

"Hedge funds, what else?"

Newsie stared at her, then silently shook his head. Rhonda didn't notice, checking her own appearance briskly in a compact mirror and dabbing some rouge on her cheeks before striding confidently toward the exit. "Tommy, make sure that gets there _before_ the broadcast starts, willya? See you both tomorrow. Hey Golden Boy, don't forget to wear the light blue shirt, okay? It'll stand out better against all the beige around here without being so darned _loud!_ 'Night!"

Was she suggesting his coat was too garish for the screen? Irritated, Newsie yelled after her, "Well, don't _you_ forget to brief the interviewees on our time format! I don't want another grandstanding academic taking up my whole report!" He was still annoyed about the tech forum he'd covered last month, in which a Muppet competitor to Gates and Jobs had taken what was supposed to be a two-minute comment segment about Muppet-owned small computer businesses and turned it into a soapbox for himself. They'd wound up with a largely unusable half-hour of the strange pale man with wires coming out of his body ranting about no one ever appreciating virtual spaghetti, the Dangermouse cartoon, or androids who worked their shiny metal butts off without adequate recognition of their many talents.

As Tony the sloth – no, wait, _Tommy_ – slouched off after Rhonda, presumably heading for the exit and the KRAK van parked outside, Newsie sighed. Although he'd ridden over from the station with the camerasloth, it would probably be faster if he simply went out to the subway stop and caught the next train. He remembered he was supposed to be bringing dinner home, as Gina had been working all afternoon at the Sosilly Theatre, hanging lights in preparation for a charity show this weekend to benefit a city summer program for children in poor neighborhoods. The show would feature songs, dance numbers, a comedian, a stage magician, and a local troupe of acrobats. Gina had offered to light it all, and she and her techie friends had spent the last two days putting together the final plans for scenery and lighting. A pro costumer had volunteered stock costumes for the song and dance numbers, and the other performers would bring their own paraphernalia along. Newsie was impressed with how quickly the show had come together, and was looking forward to attending it with Gina on Friday night. It had been a slow news week, but that didn't bother him as much as it used to; he had settled back into his News Flash job at the rebuilt Muppet Theatre fairly easily, and was able to spend as much time with his new love as her schedule permitted. Life, in short, was actually enjoyable.

Walking down the broad flight of stairs, the Newsman's attention immediately darted to the tiny green creature hopping up the steps. Robin the Frog recognized the journalist and broke into a big green smile. "Hi there, Newsman! Did you get to see the Muppasaurs? Are they really big? Are they scary? How many of them are there? Did you touch any of them? Will they come alive after sunset?"

Unable to keep from smiling back, Newsie crouched and held out his hands for the tiny peeper to hop into, and raised him gently up to talk with him. "Hi, Robin. Yes, I saw them. Yes, they're pretty big. Er…no, they're not scary, not so much," he lied. "And you know that was just a movie, right? The Museum doesn't actually come to life when everyone leaves." He looked around, puzzled. "Where's your uncle?"

"Oh, I'm here with my friend Ribsy," Robin told him, flipping himself around to wave at another tiny amphibian hopping slowly up the marble steps, followed closely by a worried-seeming, overweight toad. "Hey Ribsy! Look who's here! Newsie says the Muppasaurs are HUGE!"

"Cooooool!" the tiny toad croaked in reply.

"Robin? Robin, get back here! Your aunt will kill me if anything happens to you…" the older toad groaned, levering himself up one more step before stopping, panting.

"Oh it's okay, Mr Ribbot! He works for my Uncle Kermit!" Robin chirped happily, then did another about-face to pepper Newsie with more questions. "So is it true the _Muppasaurus Tex_ is in it? Is it bigger than you? Does it have really big teeth like a monster? Is it a monster or a lizard? Ribsy thinks it's a lizard, but _I_ think it's a monster! Can I see it? Can you let us in? Will you tell?"

"Wait, wait, Robin!" Newsie said gruffly, trying to stem the endless flow of chatter. The toads had caught up and were sitting at his feet, Mr Ribbot giving him a suspicious stare, and little Ribsy bouncing slightly on his flippers, too eager for the answers to wait; as soon as Robin fell silent a moment, the junior toad jumped in.

"Everyone knows _Muppasaurus Tex_ is the largest known Muppet lizard fossil! Does it have a long tail? Did they show off its teeth? How big are the claws? Did it weigh five tons or six? Could it eat a Muppet if it were alive today? Could it eat _you?_ You're pretty tall for a Muppet, aren't you?"

The boys' questions were not helping the Newsman's anxiety about the deadly-looking fossil in the least. "Er…"

"You work for Kermit the Frog? Don't you work for one of those news shows? Do you often talk to small boys in public places?" Mr Ribbot glumphed, waddling around Newsie's saddle shoes, giving them disdainful looks.

Newsie gently set Robin down, and held up his hands, feeling a bit defensive. "Sir, yes, I _do_ happen to work part-time for Mr the Frog, and yes, I _also_ am a reporter for KRAK, and no, I do _not_ often talk to small boys in public – or anyone else for that matter, unless I'm in pursuit of a news story!" He pushed his glasses up his nose and matched the toad's glare.

"So can we go in? Can we go in?" Robin asked, hopping in place.

"Uhm…I believe the exhibit is not officially open to the public yet, Robin. I don't have the authority to let you in. I'm sorry," Newsie said to the boy, trying to be gentle.

Ribsy nudged his friend. _"Told_ you."

"You boys are coming on Saturday with the whole Frog Scout troop, anyway," Mr Ribbot said. "Now come along! Let's go look at the Amphibians and Reptiles wing." Ponderously, the large toad half-hopped, half-waddled past the curtained-off gallery where the Muppet exhibit stood awaiting its grand opening, towards the nearby permanent exhibit for crawling, slithering things.

"Aww…okay," Robin sighed. He waved goodbye to the Newsman, and Newsie gave him a small wave back. Ribsy the little toad, however, sniffed contemptuously as he followed his friend.

"Tool of the establishment," the toadlet muttered, eyeing the Newsman in much the same manner as his father had. "Figures."

Taken aback, then insulted, Newsie glowered after the little group a moment. _Called a name by a child! A TOAD child! Don't parents teach their kids manners anymore?_ Irritated, he started to walk off, pulling out his handkerchief to clean his glasses. Robin's eager queries had managed to get a little bit of froggie spit on them. He knew it wasn't intentional, and cleaned off the thick lenses without complaint. Tucking the hankie away, he felt a rustling from his inside coat pocket. Curious, he tugged out the brochure the curator had given him, a special program with many photos detailing the new exhibit. Suddenly realizing what a treasure it might be to a young boy, he called out, "Robin! Wait!" and hurried after the frog.

A few minutes later, pleased at the grateful look he'd been given by his boss' nephew for the advance peek (on paper, at least), Newsie stepped out into late-August heat and walked briskly past the Planetarium toward the subway entrance. As a Muppet, of course, he didn't sweat, and it would be unseemly to pant openly, so there was little he could do about the sweltering temperature. Underground proved much cooler, and by the time he disembarked at 50th Street he felt fortified for the walk of a few blocks to Gina's apartment on the edge of the Theater District, stopping once along the way at Kubla Khan's House of Stir-Fry and Mangoes (formerly, "and Bananas," before this summer's banana-boat tarantula health scare) to order takeout. He wasn't inside the apartment for five minutes before Gina arrived home.

"Hi, cutie," she said, bending over to give Newsie a kiss. He met her lips happily, and quickly gestured at the little white cartons piled on the dining room table.

"Hi! I brought you Orange Mango Shrimp, and Mango Hunan…I couldn't decide which you might like better," he offered.

"Thoughtful man," she murmured, stroking his hair back. He beamed at her, blushing. "It all sounds good…but I want to wash this scrum off first." She pushed back her own long hair from her forehead, and Newsie saw the dark spots on her skin. "I got into a fight with an older light, and it tried to toss back the WD-40 I was using on it."

"Are – are you all right?" Newsie asked, examining the stains.

Gina laughed. "Yeah – I won. But I'd love to get it off me now." She took a few steps down the hall, then looked over her shoulder at him with a suggestive smile. "Are you coming?"

"Er…"

He was repeatedly amazed at how she turned the simple chores of living into seductive situations. He didn't actually need a shower – he never left the apartment before ascertaining he was as clean and neat as possible – but standing under the warm water with this tall, shapely young woman always thrilled him, always caused a pink flush to steal over his entire person as he dared glances at her unclothed form. Gina took every occasion to tease him mercilessly, although if the truth had to be told, he didn't mind that as much as he pretended to, for decency's sake… This time, she managed to drop the soap no less than three times, bending over to retrieve it various ways so that he couldn't help but view her…uhm…features…from different angles, all provocative. Sometimes, she only wanted to wash, and to taunt him a little; tonight she was in no hurry, and she leaned against the tiled wall of the tub enclosure, murmuring his praises, her fingers twined in his soaked hair.

Things became even more involved after that, and it was quite some time before they returned to the now-cold food.

As Gina took charge of warming it all back up, Newsie finished setting the table, lighting an assortment of candles of various shapes and heights, all colored a relaxing green, and arranging them around a small tropical bonsai in its long pot on the table. Gina had suggested he take up the botanical hobby as a way to calm his nerves after stressful news days (or especially painful Muppet News Flashes), and he'd found he rather enjoyed the meticulousness of it. This one, a berry bush of some kind, he'd been carefully pruning and shaping for only a month, but already he could appreciate his efforts with it, as it slowly grew into a windswept-seeming form. Gina smiled at him, bringing the steaming food to the table. "Looking good," she commented.

Newsie shot her a smile. "Do you think so? I think I'm getting the hang of it."

"Oh, well, sure; the plant's cute too," she returned, and he chuckled and pulled her down for a kiss.

Newsie sighed happily, looking around the room a moment as Gina slid into her seat next to him. The apartment felt comfortably cool; the candles provided just the right amount of soft light in the otherwise darkening room, with sunset's last pink rays painting the buildings outside the living room windows; the tiny black-and-electric-blue fish schooled in their aquarium, lending a little movement to the peaceful scene. He turned back to his Gypsy beloved, admiring for the thousandth time her light grey eyes and silky auburn tresses, her small straight nose and well-defined cheeks. He'd never understand why she found _him_ attractive, but her own charms were evident to all the world, he thought, and he could only thank whatever fates had smiled on him.

Gina gave him a quizzical look. "Do I have something on my nose? I haven't even dug into the mango sauce yet."

Newsie blushed. "Uh…no. Sorry. I was just…just…"

She grinned. "Admiring the view?"

He cleared his throat, unable to come up with a good response, and Gina giggled. "Fine by me. Same here." He smiled, and she reached over to stroke his long cheek. "You are so _cute_ in t-shirts. I wish you'd go casual more often."

"Er…um. Well. I really couldn't, anywhere else," he stammered, glancing down at the Solid Foam World Tour t-shirt he'd picked from her dresser drawer-ful of strange shirts to wear after the shower. All he had on at the moment was that and a new pair of boxers, dark blue with tiny yellow lightning bolts printed all over, which Gina had bought for him. Gina had opted for even less, and he found it hard to focus on the food while seeing quite a bit of her around the pink tank top and matching short-shorts she'd decided to wear to the table. He reflected that her idea of pajamas and his were miles apart…not that this was a bad thing.

She giggled again, passing him a carton of rice, and started a more neutral conversation. "So, how'd the report on the exhibit go? Does it look cool?"

Newsie told her all about the Muppet natural history displays, how large and intimidating the Muppasaurs were, how odd the mummy appeared, how he'd run into Robin after the first report filming wrapped tonight. "I can't wait to see it all!" Gina said, grinning at him. "You _did_ score free passes, right?"

"They're already on your desk," he replied, and she leaned over to kiss his nose.

"Fantastic! A charity revue Friday night, and a cool exhibit on Saturday! Sounds like a great weekend, Newsie." He nodded, pleased.

"What about your show? Does everyone seem ready?"

"Ohhh…yeah, basically, except for that stage magician. I haven't seen the guy yet at all, though Paul keeps saying not to worry." She grimaced. "I'm supposed to be tech director as well as lighting designer _and_ master electrician for this thing, and I don't have a clue what the magic guy wants for his act yet, and we open in two nights! You'd think a performer would want to make sure he's at least _lit_ well."

They continued to eat and talk, interested in one another's work, for a while until both admitted to being full and a little sleepy. Gina would have to leave early in the morning for an all-day tech run-through; Newsie already had her favorite iced scones in the pantry to warm up for breakfast, and planned to be up before her in order to have coffee ready, though he himself wasn't needed anywhere else until the afternoon. Comfortably they snuggled together on the sofa, watching a detective show rerun, and when that was over, both prepared for bed in an easy routine they'd settled into months ago. Gina lit a stick of the amber-spice incense she preferred; Newsie had at first found it too exotic, disconcerting and bohemian. Now he was accustomed to the rich Arabian perfume, and inhaled it deeply as he pulled the light coverlet up. Sated in more ways than one, both woman and Muppet were content merely to hold each other tonight. Gina liked to fall asleep holding Newsie, her arm over him as she curled her body around his shorter form, and he was all too happy to relax into her, his nose half-buried in his pillow, his hand over hers on his stomach, a smile lingering on his face as they both drifted into secure slumber.

His watch alarm awoke him at six, and Newsie gently pulled free of Gina's arms, slipping out of bed and padding to the kitchen while she continued to sleep. By now he was expert with the French coffee press, and peered groggily at the selection of beans in the freezer door, trying to guess which flavor his love might best like today. Picking the "cinnamon jolt" one finally, he had just measured the right amount into the grinder when he heard a noise in the living room. Grinning to himself – he hadn't told her he was fixing breakfast – he ground up the whole, rich beans in a few loud pulses of the machine, then tapped the rough granules into the press and started some water in the kettle. Stepping out into the dining room, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel, he looked up and stopped in his tracks upon sight of the figure in the next room.

A tall, bone-gaunt, black-robed being seemed to suck all the morning sunlight out of the room. It held a scythe taller than it at rest in one skeletal hand. The Newsman felt his blood simply stop, his heart stuttering, ringing rising in his ears. _"YOU HAVE TO DO SOMETHING ABOUT THIS!"_ the figure intoned, pointing a bony finger at the Newsman, its voice echoing like a cathedral bell.

"Ack!" Newsie choked, his legs simply failing. He dropped to his knees, staring up at the horrible spectre suddenly turning his paradise into a charnel house.

Death sighed, shaking its hood. _"OH, FOR CRYING OUT LOUD. I'M NOT PICKING UP, I'M DROPPING OFF!"_ From behind the voluminous, tattered robes stepped a prim, grey, sharp-nosed, elderly Muppet woman. She frowned through thick spectacles at the Newsman, and set her hands firmly upon the straight hips of her shapeless housedress.

 _"_ _Aloysius Ambrosius!"_ she snapped in a crackly voice. "Young man, I am _deeply_ disappointed in you!"

Newsie's felt turned from golden-yellow to pale beige all at once. With a soft moan, he slumped to the carpet, unconscious.

The late Mrs Crimp turned to Death, jutting her large chin out. "Now _why_ do you have to do that? Look at that! _You_ just scared my lily-livered son to death!"

Death rolled his red pinpricks of eyes in their black sockets.


	2. Chapter 2

_"_ _OLD SHREW, SILENCE! IF YOU CONTINUE TO TAX MY PATIENCE IN THIS MATTER—"_

Gina gasped, reflexively making the gesture her Grandmama Angie had taught her to ward off the evil eye, at the sight of the gaunt, terrible thing darkening her home. Then she saw her Muppet journalist, pale and still on the carpet, and with a desperate cry rushed to his side. Scooping him into her arms, she shrieked at the ghastly spectre looming over him, _"Mulesko angelo,_ leave him! I –I forbid you entry to my home!" Words of Romany she didn't know she'd even remembered came pouring from her lips, frantic, terrified; in her grandmother's native tongue, Gina shouted a countercurse for the sudden death of a loved one: "Pale king, you have no power here! Let the sun's light drive you hence, may you scrape and skulk in the boneyard like a hungry dog; you shall not have my love for your deathly court!"

A sigh like a cold wind through a morgue blew over her, making her shiver violently. Gina clutched Newsie to her protectively, but the hooded figure only raised its bony hands to the ceiling. _"WHY DOES EVERYONE ASSUME I ONLY DROP IN TO COLLECT SOULS? YOU THINK I HAVE NO LIFE, I'M JUST ALL ABOUT WORK, IS THAT IT? YEAH, YEAH: SOULS, SOULS, SOULS. SHEESH!"_ The dark entity crossed its shrouded arms over its ribcage, lowering its head, and Gina couldn't meet that terrible glower. _"RELAX. HE'S NOT DEAD."_

"Newsie?" Gina whispered, stroking his hair. With a quiet groan, the Newsman stirred, and she hugged him tightly. "Oh, no. Oh, no…" Shuddering, she attempted to look back up at the horrible angel.

 _"_ _NO, NOT YOU EITHER! AND FOR THE RECORD, THAT LITTLE SPELL WON'T WORK ON ME, PEANUT. I'M NOT SOME RUBE DEMON THAT JUST FELL OFF THE PLAGUE WAGON. I'M IT. THE ONE AND ONLY. NOW SETTLE DOWN ALREADY!"_

"Gina?" Newsie muttered, coming to with her arms around him, feeling weak and disoriented. _A nightmare, it was just a nightmare!_ Relieved, he embraced her. "Good grief, what a horrible, horrible dream I just had…" The neglected kettle screeched, and he jumped. "Oh! The coffee…I was…I was…wait a minute…" The Newsman slowly lifted his head, trembling, and saw the very thing which had first frightened him. _"Aaauugh!"_

"Newsie, Newsie, it's okay," Gina said hurriedly, holding him tight; he clung to her shoulders as she knelt beside him, and they both stared up at Death. "Uh…I think…" Gina amended, still trying to process it all; she wasn't feeling awake enough to be this terrified.

A grey-haired, grey-felted elderly Muppet woman with the same sharp, long nose and broad jaw as the Newsman shoved Death out of the way to glare at the couple. "And _here's_ the little trollop who's been corrupting my boy! Don't you have the least vestige of _shame_ for yourself, you hussy?" the old woman snapped. Her voice sounded like dead leaves being crumbled in someone's fist. She snorted in disgust. "At least turn off that shrieking kettle so I can lecture you without yelling over it!"

"Oh please no," Newsie whimpered, and promptly fainted again.

Gina held him, mouth agape a moment, staring wideyed at the apparition. The old woman stepped smartly up to her and glared nose-to-nose at the helpless Newsman through tiny granny spectacles. "Who…who the hell are you?" Gina demanded, finding her voice again.

"Look at him," the old woman muttered, ignoring Gina. "Always had such a weak constitution. He gets it from his father, you know. Killed by a falling load of turnips at the docks. Just imagine! _Turnips."_

 _"_ _FINE, *I'LL* GET THE DRATTED KETTLE,"_ Death groaned, stomping silently past them all into the kitchen. The whistling choked abruptly to a halt; Gina had the uneasy idea the hooded thing hadn't even touched it or the burner control.

"Too weak for his own good," the old woman sighed, and with a thick gray finger stroked the unconscious Newsman's cheek. He groaned softly, shivering. Gina could feel the cold radiating off the old woman, and suddenly understood.

"You…you're _dead,"_ Gina accused. The old woman merely shot her a glare. Angrily, Gina dredged out of her memory her Grandmama Angie's favorite exorcism: "Pale wretch, begone! Back to the night, back to the grave! By Saint Sarah I command you, by the two Marys, by Saint Michael and all the hounds of hell –"

 _"_ _KNOCK IT OFF, PEANUT,"_ Death boomed from the kitchen, and Gina cringed instinctively, then glared at the old woman, cradling her Newsie tighter, away from the ghost's cold hands. _"HEY, GOT ANY EARL GREY? OH WAIT. YOU HAVE A COFFEE PRESS. COOL."_

"You take your filthy hands off him, you tramp!" the old woman hissed, her wide mouth curling down in contempt. "He's _mine!_ I _never_ should have left him on his own, he never could think for himself! Look what you've done to him – wandering this horrible little hovel _half-naked,_ just like you!"

Furious, Gina stood, gathering her Newsman into her arms to lift him well out of reach of the crazy old woman. "What the hell would _you_ know about him, you nasty old bag lady?" Gina shouted at her.

"I was slapping clean diapers on him long before you were _whelped,_ you presumptuous little puppy!"

"Are you calling me a –"

"You bet your dirty little paws I am! Put him down this instant!"

Before the fight could get nastier, Death wandered back in, plopping his charnel rags into a chair at the dining room table, a mug of coffee in one hand. He leaned the scythe against the wall and slupped the coffee noisily. _"I SEE YOU'RE GETTING ACQUAINTED."_

"Tell that naked little tart to let go of my son!" the elderly Muppet woman complained to the spectre.

"Get this smelly, wrinkly troll out of my home!" Gina shouted back, hip-checking the ghost to one side to dare a complaint herself.

Death turned his skull from one to the other, his hood falling low like scowling brows. He sighed. _"LOOK. HERE'S THE THING: SHE WAS ENOUGH OF A NUISANCE THE PAST NINE YEARS ALREADY. THEN *YOU* HOOK UP WITH *HIM*,"_ (with a nod at Newsie, who was beginning to wake up once more in Gina's arms, though not the way he preferred) _"AND DAY IN, DAY OUT, IT'S ALL 'YOU HAVE TO BRING HIM TO ME,' OR 'YOU HAVE TO TAKE ME TO HIM,' OR 'YOU HAVE TO TAKE HER!'"_

Gina flinched, frightened into silence. "Unnngh," Newsie muttered. "Gina…?"

"Well?" the old woman demanded, her forehead crumpled over, glowering at Death. "So get rid of the rude little tramp!"

Death pointed a long white fingerbone at her. _"YOU CAN SHUT UP NOW, FLOSSIE! YOU'RE HERE, AREN'T YOU?"_

"It's Florabeth, you awful tyrant," the old woman sniffed, unbowed.

Frozen, holding on to Gina's shoulders, the Newsman recognized that voice. _NOT a dream? Oh no, oh no, oh no!_ Trembling, he slowly looked into Gina's eyes; her worried expression didn't inspire much confidence. Turning his gaze down, he let out a small shriek and jerked when the familiar but dreaded face moved into view just below him. "Ack! Uh…M-mother?"

"Aloysius! You let go of that creature this _instant!_ You don't know where she's been," the Muppet crone said, sounding smug.

"You old bi—" Gina began, but Newsie hurriedly put his hand to her mouth.

"Uh…er…Mother…don't say that. This is Gina. She's my…" he gulped. "M-my girlfriend."

"I see perfectly well _what_ she is," Mrs Crimp, deceased, pointed her nose at the ceiling. "Now come down from there _right this minute!"_

Deep, spectral bells tolled, making Gina and Newsie both jump. Death pulled a cell phone from beneath his robes. _"SORRY…I GOTTA TAKE THIS. HELLO? WHAT? WELL, YOU TELL 'EM THOSE FERRY BOATS CAPSIZE EVERY MONTH! *I* CAN'T BE HELD RESPONSI…RIGHT. YEAH. I KNOW."_ He sighed, the breeze again making the living shudder. One of Gina's thriving ferns hanging in a wire basket in the living room window shriveled and blackened. _"WELL, I'M KINDA IN THE MIDDLE OF…OH, FOR CRYING OUT LOUD. ALL RIGHT, ALL RIGHT! I'LL BE THERE IN A MINUTE."_ He paused, listening, then waved a clacking fistful of bones. _"GEEZ, MARTY, I DON'T KNOW – TELL 'EM TO CLING TO THE WRECKAGE UNTIL I CAN GET SOME SHARKS OVER TO EAT 'EM!"_ Annoyed, Death snapped his cell shut, gesturing to the stunned Newsie and Gina. _"EH, I GOTTA SPLIT. SOME IDIOT OVERLOADED A FERRY IN THE INDIAN OCEAN AGAIN, AND THE SHARKS ARE ALL BUSY AT A FISHING FESTIVAL A HUNDRED MILES AWAY! YOU'D THINK PEOPLE WOULD BE *HAPPY* TO DROWN INSTEAD, BUT NOOO, EVERYONE ASKS TO GO QUICKLY…"_ He gulped the coffee, then slammed the mug on the table. Newsie and Gina both jumped again at the eerie hollow noise. _"THIS IS LOUSY COFFEE! WHY DO I ALWAYS GET LOUSY COFFEE?"_

"Er…you killed the flavor?" Newsie guessed timidly.

"Around here, I'm sure it tastes like sin anyway," Mrs Crimp sneered.

Death stood, brushing coffee droplets from his shroud. Alarmed, Gina stepped into his path, making Newsie cringe against her shoulder. "Uh…aren't you taking the dead bag lady with you?" she asked.

Death shook his skull in a definite negative. Newsie realized suddenly you haven't really understood the depths of the gesture for _No_ until you've seen the Grim Reaper do it. _"SHE'S YOUR PROBLEM NOW. SHE WON'T SHUT UP ABOUT HER SON BEING INVOLVED WITH YOU, AND FRANKLY, I CAN'T TAKE ANY MORE OF THE NAGGING! YOU BOTH HAVE FORTY-EIGHT HOURS TO GET SOMETHING WORKED OUT."_

"'Worked out'? What do you mean, 'worked out'?" Newsie choked, looking fearfully from the ghost of his mother to the spectre of Death.

"Why don't you just bring him back with us? Or leave me here, and do something appropriate to _her?"_ Mrs Crimp badgered.

Death loomed over the grey Muppet crone. _"AGAINST THE RULES, BESSIE! WE'VE BEEN OVER THIS A THOUSAND TIMES!"_ To Newsie, he intoned: _"BUT I *WILL* BEND THE RULES IF I HAVE TO! I CAN'T – STAND – NAGGING!"_

"Erk!" Newsie gulped, shrinking away from the terrible Reaper.

 _"_ _SO WORK IT OUT! I DON'T CARE HOW! *YOU* CAUSED THIS; *YOU* SOLVE IT – OR ELSE!"_ The frustrated spectre glided off, somehow giving the impression of stomping angrily. _"TWO DAYS! TWO DAYS WITHOUT THAT HARRIDAN SNIPING AT ME…I MIGHT ACTUALLY GET SOMETHING DEAD…"_

With a horrible shriek like an owl being strangled swooping through the apartment in his wake, Death simply vanished. The sunlight slowly trickled back over the windowsills. The oppressive coldness filling the apartment dissipated. Newsie stared at Gina; she stared back. Both of them looked down at the elderly woman who so closely resembled Newsie; she glared back, arms crossed, tapping one foot in an orthopedic shoe. Before anyone could say anything, a cloud crossed the room, the living shivered, and in a burst of grave-dust and squeaking bats, Death reappeared.

Everyone froze. Death grabbed his scythe, which he'd left leaning against the dining room wall. Realizing suddenly all eyes were upon him, he paused, looked around, shrugged, and grumbled, _"YEAH? *YOU* TRY KEEPING TRACK OF OVER A MILLION DEATHS A DAY!"_

With another eerie, squawking bird-knell, he disappeared.


	3. Chapter 3

Still shaking, Newsie wrapped his arms around Gina's shoulders; she embraced him in return, but just as they were about to kiss they were rudely reminded of the intruder to their home. "Don't you _dare_ touch him with those dirty lips! I know what you were about to call me! Someone ought to wash your mouth out with soap, you nasty child!"

"Mother, _please,"_ Newsie groaned. He gave Gina a helpless look. Frowning, she gently set him upon his feet, hoping he could regain a little dignity on his own. As the Newsman turned reluctantly around to confront the frosty Muppet revenant, Mrs Crimp stepped closer, brandishing a waggling finger.

"And don't you 'Mother please' me! I raised you better than this, Aloysius!"

Newsie flinched. Gina glared at the old woman. "I think I need some of that coffee," Gina muttered, heading for the kitchen.

"You…you might want to start a fresh pot," Newsie said, shooting a glance at the mug Death had discarded. At least those bony teeth hadn't touched _his_ favorite pottery mug, or Gina's either. "Uh…would you like a cup of coffee, Mother?"

"Don't be absurd. You know I had to give it up for my health," Mrs Crimp sniffed.

"Does that matter now?" Newsie mumbled, eyes downcast, hands clenched together over his chest. _Forty-eight hours? To solve WHAT?_ He could barely come to grips with the idea that the domineering woman whom he'd felt obligated to devote most of his life to, and had finally been freed of nine years ago, was suddenly back and as harsh as ever…much less the apparent demand Death himself had just made concerning Newsie's mother, who had never, _ever,_ wavered from an opinion once her mind was set. Gulping, he tried the gentle approach, though he still couldn't bear to look at her. "So…uh…Mother…how…how have you been?"

"Well, up until a few months ago, fine enough, I suppose," Mrs Crimp said, casting haughty looks around the colorful, formerly peaceful apartment. She sailed like an overburdened cargo sloop into the living room, with her anxious son pacing after. "Always a little too hot, or a little too cold, or too noisy with all those other people around, no such thing as a perfect underworld, but, just like the living world, it's pointless to complain, no one ever listens." She glowered at the framed Jacek Yerka print, "Illegal Light-Making," which Newsie had hung on the living room wall among all of Gina's Art Nouveau posters.

The painting, a metaphor for small, personal resistance under the Communist rule in Poland during the Cold War years, had served as a quiet inspiration to the Newsman since he'd first chanced to see it. A rusted oildrum of a furnace took up the central spot of the scene, a wood fire beneath it stoking up a beautiful, pure white glow within the boiling container. Small bowls of light had already been scooped from the drum, perhaps as tasting samples, like moonshine in the Kentucky hills. Storage cupboards and a pile of red potatoes on the right, and a wall simply vanishing into a northern-latitude endless twilight to the left of the furnace, spoke of both secrecy and freedom. The soft earth colors felt more soothing than revolutionary; if this was a protest, as the title implied, it was a very quiet one. The symbolism of it attracted the Newsman strongly, especially since he'd met Gina. He was not a Muppet for broad gestures like Gonzo, or open defiance like Rizzo…but with his love, he felt free finally; around her, he could relax, safe from ridicule…or from things falling on him.

His mother knew nothing about art. "She has a picture of an oil drum in a nasty, dirty cellar? And of alcohol, and sex?" She gestured at the posters depicting an ad for absinthe and for a clothier from turn-of-the-century Paris, both with voluptuous young women gowned in flowing wisps of fabric or mist. "I cannot _believe_ that _this_ is the company my son keeps!"

"I can't believe this _witch_ was able to produce such a caring man," Gina growled, standing in the kitchen doorway. Newsie threw her a worried look, but his mother didn't seem to have heard.

"Uh…Mother…I think maybe you, uh, you've judged a little quickly…" Newsie began, but his mother whirled on him with a scowl even more pronounced than his worst, her tiny glasses pinned between her nose and her forehead.

"I should say the same to you!" she snapped. "How long did you know this tramp before she seduced you into moving in? Little gold-digger!"

"That. Is. _Enough,"_ Gina snarled, striding over, a mug of fresh steaming coffee in hand. She stopped right beside Mrs Crimp, taking advantage of her height to loom over the ghostly Muppet. "This is _my_ home! Mine and Newsie's! I don't care who you are, I don't care how dead you are, _no_ one walks into a house of the _kalo rat_ and insults one of us!"

Newsie was thrown a second before he recalled a little of the scattered Romany words Gina had taught him. _'Kalo rat'…true blood. Oh, no. Please don't make this a Gypsy honor thing,_ he thought, worried. He knew from experience now that she only ever used words like that when she was really, deeply upset or angry. "Uh, Gina, uhm, I'm sure this is all just a, heh, heh, a case of mistaken impressions, a, uh, a culture clash…"

Neither of the two most important women in his life was having any of it. "Oh, you're gonna see a culture clash in a minute," Gina muttered.

"So now she's a rat? And she objected to being called a dog!" Mrs Crimp sniffed.

"Uh, no, Mother; that was Gypsy language. You see, Gina's ancestors—"

"You're about to hear some non-animal-related words, so you'd better cover your prissy ears, old witch," Gina warned.

"Are you going to let her talk to me like _that?"_ Newsie's mother demanded of him.

"Uh, er, please! Wait just a—"

"Dirty hussy!"

"Stuck-up old hag!"

"What has she _done_ to you, Aloysius? Now you come with me; I'll take you down to the Y and get you all scrubbed clean…"

"Uh—"

 _"_ _Clean?_ Why don't we talk about the damage you did to him by insisting love was _dirty?_ It took me weeks to get him to stop wearing pajama styles older than Waldorf!"

"Er—"

"Love is _chaste,_ you trollop! What you've done to him isn't _love,_ it's so _sinful_ I'll have to scrub him bright _red_ to get the filth off!"

"Mother, _ple—"_

"What warped corner of Puritania did _you_ waddle out of? Do you know what he moans to me, during that wonderful _sin?"_

"Gina! Ple—"

Mrs Crimp drew back, shocked, then grabbed Newsie's left arm. "That is _enough!_ Aloysius, I am taking you _home!"_

"N-no! Stop!" Newsie struggled to free himself from the ice-cold, iron grip.

"What, you hadn't smothered _enough_ life out of him when you were alive, you have to drag him to the grave right when he's finally begun to live for his _own_ happiness?" Gina argued, holding Newsie's right arm tightly. A tug of war ensued a few seconds, with the Newsman frantically caught between the two angry women, until with a cry of pain Newsie yelled at them both.

 _"_ _STOP! PLEASE!"_

Suddenly realizing he was hurt, Gina let him go; Newsie tumbled onto his mother, knocking her to the rug. With a gasp he quickly jumped back, freed of her deathly grip as well. "Clumsy little _oaf!"_ the old Muppet shouted; Newsie hesitated before offering her a hand up, and she shoved him away, righting herself with many puffs of outrage. "This! _This_ is what you've become without me: a rude, sinful, horrible little boy badly in need of discipline!"

"Mother! I am _not_ your little boy anymore!" Newsie shouted, unable to stomach the tension any further. Surprised, his mother stared at him a moment, then lifted up her nose, turned her head away, and drew her shoulders up tightly. _Oh, no,_ he thought, _Not the wounded thing. Not again, not now._ Sure enough, the elder Crimp began sniffling, her eyes shut behind her spectacles.

"I don't freaking believe this," Gina muttered. She drew Newsie closer, her arm over his shoulders. "Newsie, you have to get rid of her. I can't deal with this much craziness. I'm sorry."

Unhappily, he looked up at Gina. She seemed about to kiss his forehead, then glanced at Mrs Crimp, changed her mind, and simply walked away, heading for the bedroom. "I have to get dressed. I have work."

Dismayed, he stared after her. Behind him, his mother loudly cleared her throat. "Good riddance to bad rubbish. I am willing to forget how you just treated me, Aloysius Ambrosius Crimp, if you leave this place _at once_ and get yourself properly presentable for me. I am frankly shocked that you'd allow yourself to be seen in so little clothing – and such atrocious things, at that!"

Newsie glanced down at the boxers and t-shirt he still had on. "It isn't as though I even knew you were, uh, dropping in, Mother!" he muttered glumly.

She glared imperiously down her long nose at him through those tiny spectacles. He'd always hated how she would tilt her head so the light would glare off the lenses, giving the impression that she had fiery bright eyes instead of dull, small, watery ones. It had always felt like the harsh light of judgment blazing down upon him. "And that's your excuse? Have you forgotten every shred of _decent_ manners I schooled you in? A fine legacy I find here! A Crimp, half-nude, living in sin! Just think what your poor Aunt Ethel would have thought – why, she'd have a heart attack if she knew what you were up to!"

"I doubt she'd even recognize me, Mother," Newsie retorted. His elderly aunt was regrettably now confined in the Long Shadows Upon the Dial Happy Home for the Dangerously Senile, out in Queens, where her own stepchildren had placed her after that unfortunate incident with the guinea pig colony and her weaving loom. The poor woman had mistaken the guineas for balls of yarn and given out some disturbingly squealing sweaters for Christmas that year…

"Not how you've changed, no, she wouldn't! I barely recognize my own son myself! I raised you better than this!" She resumed the sniffling, shaking her head. "I tried…I tried so hard to make you good, always sacrificing my bridge nights to give you the discipline you so badly needed! It's your father's fault, dying like that when you were a baby, so you never had a strong hand around the home to guide you!"

Newsie reflected in some pain that he'd never felt deprived of a strong hand, though "guiding" wouldn't have been the term he would've used to describe his mother's typical laying-on-of-hands. Gina strode back into the living room, not even glancing at Mrs Crimp, opening the armoire holding all the entertainment electronics and doing something with the stereo and her iPod. Newsie hurried to her side. "What can I do?" he whispered, worried. "I don't know how to make her stop complaining to Death! She's always complained about _everything!"_

Gina gave him a very dark look. "Stand up to her, Newsie. I'm serious. We can _not_ have that…that _woman_ lousing up our lives! At least, I know _I_ can't!" He stared at her, stricken, as she pushed a few buttons and some quiet acoustic guitar began playing a song he didn't know through the living room speakers. Standing up, dressed in an even more raggily casual t-shirt and cutoff shorts than usual – no doubt to antagonize the disapproving Muppet lady further – Gina slung her small purse under her arm, and put a hand on Newsie's shoulder. "I love you. But I will _not_ deal with this pleasantly. So think about what you need to do. See you later."

She left the apartment. Newsie gulped, watching the door close. The song she'd put on the sound system seemed quiet enough, at least, and he hoped it was a peace offering: _"Mother, do you think they'll drop the bomb?"_ an even-toned male voice sang softly. _"Mother, do you think they'll like this song…"_

"Are you ready?" Mrs Crimp asked. Newsie stared at her, worried.

"Uh…ready for what?"

"To apologize to me for the horrible treatment I have received today! I have _never_ been so ashamed! You stood there like a tongue-tied cretin and let her say those _awful_ things!"

"You said some mean things too," he pointed out, disgruntled, and suddenly she was shoving one pointy-manicured finger against the underside of his nose. "Ow, ow, ow!"

"You horrible, shameless, spineless, _disloyal_ little beast!" she shrieked, making him wince again. He stumbled, trying to back away, to free his nose from that painfully sharp French tip, but she stepped with him, keeping the pressure up, as she'd favored ever since he'd grown taller than her by a couple of inches and dragging him by his collar had become difficult for her to manage, with her declining strength. "How _dare_ you! How dare you insult me by…by shacking up with this disgusting, amoral little _floozy!"_

"Gina is _not_ a floozy!" Newsie yelled, shoving his mother a step back.

Both of them froze. Mrs Crimp looked so shocked, so hurt, that instantly he felt guilty. What on earth had got into him? He'd never had a violent temper! "I'm…I'm sorry, Mother. I…I didn't mean…"

His mother stared at him in silence a whole minute; the music broke into a slow rock rhythm, and Mrs Crimp scowled deeply. "Well," she said icily. "I see things are worse than I suspected. There's a phrase for what you've become, Aloysius. I am _far_ too polite to use that sort of language, but if I were a nasty, crude, trash-mouthed hussy like that creature who's ensnared you, I might be tempted to use the word," she coughed delicately, distastefully, _"whipped."_

The Newsman blushed, immediately angry and ashamed. "Mother!"

"I can see you're in no mood for reason right now. We'll speak more about this later."

"Mother, I will _not—"_

But she was gone. Vanished, leaving only the faint scent of pine floor cleaner in the air, and a knife in her son's heart. Dispirited, he stood there a long while, the words to the song still playing registering finally: _"Mama's gonna check out all your girlfriends for you, Mama won't let anyone dirty get through…"_

He slumped onto the couch, removed his glasses carefully, and covered his face with his hands. His stomach roiled, and he grimaced, holding in the bile wanting to come up his throat. It couldn't possibly be any worse than this. Suddenly he wished his mother was still alive; at least then he might have a chance, if he changed his appearance and moved someplace she wouldn't follow him…say, Borneo.

The song finished as the Newsman sat there, his body crumpled over, feeling a sickening sense of impending loss. He barely listened as the music ended and the apartment fell completely silent once more: _"Mother, did it need to be so high…"_


	4. Chapter 4

The acrobats seemed a little unsteady, and Gina made a wide swerve around them as they wobbled in a human pyramid. It seemed absurd to her that the heaviest member of the troupe would be the one they catapulted to the top of the six-man stack, but maybe that was all part of the act. Unhappily she grabbed the long locks which were trying to slip free of her ponytail and rewrapped the plain hair scrunchie holding them out of her face, then bent again to check her lighting plot. The specials for the acrobats, the downlight and spotlight for the comedian, and general area lights in attractive gels of soft pink and blue had all been hung, circuited, and roughly focused. That left…she sighed, studying the list with only half the items checked off. That left the sidelights for the dance numbers, whatever the magician wanted – assuming he even showed up – and a dimmer check, a few effects programmed into the lighting board, and assigning a few more simple "looks" to the board's slider controls. At least this was going to be stripped-down enough, and a bit on the fly, so she wasn't bothering to write formal light cues. Striding hurriedly with her hand-drafted light plot and checklist in hand, past the tall instrument "trees" on stage right at the Sosilly Theatre, she suddenly tripped. She had to grab one of the heavy steel crossbeams of the tree to keep from sprawling face-first. Angrily glaring at the spaghetti-nest of lighting cables which had snagged her, Gina wondered where the heck her tech assistant was. _"Alan!"_ she shouted. Several people around the stage area, including all of the acrobats, froze and jerked their heads in her direction.

Oh, dear. Did she sound _angry?_ Well, she had _damned_ good reason to be! Fuming, Gina pointed at the mess of cables as her volunteer techie, a high school kid whose grandfather was on the board for the theatre, scurried over. _"What_ does this look like to you, Alan?"

"Uh…a lot of lighting cables?"

"Wrong. The correct term for this is 'OSHA violation and broken leg waiting to happen!'" Gina snapped. "Didn't I tell you to make sure every single cable was coiled and stacked properly, and everything on the floor gaff-taped!" It wasn't a question, and fortunately the teen who'd wanted so badly to help in an actual stage production realized no response was probably the best response. He whipped a heavy roll of gaff tape from a carabiner on his belt-loop and bent at once to fix the mess. Sighing in frustration, Gina stomped off toward the lighting booth. _Dress tonight, open tomorrow; dress tonight, open tomorrow,_ she kept thinking. This morning's confrontation with the departed Mrs Crimp had set her very much on edge, and small things going wrong weren't going to ease the situation any.

In the booth which overlooked the whole floor of the small black-box space, Gina's friend Scott was hunched over the sound controls, one ear engulfed in a giant headset as he played back something on an old reel-to-reel machine. Gina fell into the chair before the lightboard, taking a deep breath and then a long sip of the energy drink she'd bought from a street vendor before she entered the theatre this morning, since her usual coffee had been cut short and breakfast was a bust. Scott glanced up, shut off the reel player, and sat back in his chair as well. "Huh. You thought about upping your caffeine intake?" When Gina shot him an irritated look, he continued mildly, "'Cause you've really been slackin' off, and I'm getting' tired of carrying the load. Pick it up already!"

Gina snorted something unrepeatable at him, and Scott grinned. "Hey, chill, okay? Look, most of it's done. All the areas are covered, they're gelled and rough-focused; I tested the amps and mics for the singers earlier and it's all good. Not even lunch yet and that's the big ones all done," Scott pointed out.

"Yeah, okay," Gina agreed. She leaned on the light console a moment, staring absently out as the acrobats shifted around and began practicing a tumbling move, somersaulting over one another back and forth within the bright but soft-edged lights of their onstage boundaries. "I still don't know what the magician wants! Is he even _here?"_

"Oh, that Amazing Mumbles guy? Yeah, he's…" Scott stared out at the stage, then frowned. "Huh. Well, he was there a second ago."

"Well, whatever. If he wants lights other than general areas, he can come find me," Gina decided, then looked quizzically at the reel-to-reel tape. "What are you doing with that dinosaur, anyway?"

"Oh, this is for the magician. It's his theme music and a bunch of canned applause. He wants it played after every trick."

"Are you _serious?"_ Gina shook her head. "Canned applause? He _does_ know this is a live show, right? Two nights and a matinee of real audience members?"

Scott shrugged. "Guess he's not that good an act!"

Gina groaned. "Who _booked_ these nuts, anyway?"

Together, they chorused, "Paul." Neither of them had been thrilled about the idea of the somewhat disreputable producer striking a deal with the Sosilly's directors to stage his charity event here, mainly because they'd heard stories from other techies about what a skinflint, domineering, foolish impresario Paul Grouper was. After meeting him last week, Gina and Scott had agreed with the others' impressions of the fast-talking, fat-lipped, perpetually-grinning producer, but they'd volunteered to run the charity show nonetheless, both because it was a good cause and because they worried that Paul might truck half the electronics out the back door some night if not supervised: he seemed a bit fishy to them. Gina had dodged him three times already this morning, in no mood to deal with his nonsense on top of everything else.

"Ah! Ready to discuss my stupendous theatrical revival?" an unfamiliar, nasal voice drawled from the door to the booth. Gina had sworn she'd shut it behind her; she turned, puzzled to see a short, violet-skinned man in a formal tux, top hat and cape. He beamed broadly at her, though his eyes seemed squinted shut beneath heavy black brows. The booth door was not only still shut, Gina could see the deadbolt locked from where she'd sat. How had this character even entered?

"Uh…can we help you?" she asked uncertainly. Scott waved a hand from the short man to Gina.

"Hey, this is the magician, Amazing…uh…"

"The Amazing Mumford, my son!" the purple man said grandly, bowing to Gina. "Professional prestidigitator, prevaricator, and purveyor of the most _astounding_ acts you have ever seen, my child, I guar-an-tee!"

"Uh huh," Gina said doubtfully. "Mumford? What, after the band?"

"I've no idea what you mean," the magician said, then gestured with his hat out at the lights hanging from the grid. "Now, I'll need some nice spooky lighting, as well befits the mysterious nature of the performance I intend to give to these good people!"

"Spooky," Gina repeated, looking at the tiny white tie and broad lapels of the old-school tux, the white spats and spit-polished shoes, the hat taller than the man's actual head by several inches, and the self-satisfied smile. "You, uh…you do know tonight's only the dress rehearsal, right? And we're just doing run-throughs right now."

"Of course, very professional of you, I approve," the magician drawled, sounding very like W.C. Fields to Gina. All he needed was a cigar to complete the attitude. He must have realized she'd been eyeing his formal clothing, and laughed lightly. "Ahh, _this_ old rag? No, no! I shall present myself far more nattily for the actual shows, believe me!" Leaning a bit closer to Gina, he whispered loudly, "I'll wear the _red_ cape for that!"

"Ooo…kay," Gina said, and checked out the booth window. The acrobats were taking a break, so she began pulling up sliders on the console. "How about this one?" Several lights washed the stage in a central area of pale blue, surrounded by darker indigo-hued pools. "Is that spooky enough?"

"Marvelous! Spectacular! It'll do."

"All right," Gina sighed, eager to get rid of the self-possessed performer and get on with the rest of her tasks. "Great. And do you want a spotlight? We have one, with an operator."

"That would be lovely! And are you going to be my assistant?"

"What?" Gina stared agape a moment at the magician. Scott raised both brows, biting back a grin, interested in what reply Gina might make to that.

"Why, your show producer promised me a lovely, leggy, redheaded assistant! I can only presume he meant you, my dear!" the magician said, leaning toward her with a smile he probably thought was charming.

Gina stared at him speechless a long minute, trying her best not to speak aloud any of the curses going through her brain. Finally she was able to limit her reply to a simple, "No." In the corner, pretending to fool with the reel player, Scott was shaking in silent mirth. Swallowing back her anger, Gina added, "I'm sorry. I have to run the show. Why don't you just grab a volunteer from the audience?"

"Oh," the magician said, looking abruptly crestfallen. "My audiences typically haven't been that…ahem…appreciative…er…enthusiastic…that is to say, I mean… _adventurous._ " He frowned. "I really wanted to launch my comeback to show business with a leggy redhead! That's the only reason I chose this dinky little theatre; Paul Grouper promised me just such a young assistant, already well-versed in stage magic!"

"Well, I'm sure he didn't mean me," Gina snapped. "Is there anything else we can help you with, from a _technical_ standpoint, Mr Mumford?"

"That's _Amazing,_ dear child. The _Amazing_ Mumford…" he sighed. "I suppose not." He suddenly whipped out a business card and thrust it into Gina's hand. "If you change your mind, ever, please give me a call!"

Gina turned the card over; it seemed to be blank, but then suddenly turned into a bouquet of dusty fake violets. Coughing, Gina threw the musty flowers aside, about to dismiss the magician from the booth: "Great, sure, listen, we really have to—" But the magician was gone. Gina looked at Scott; he shrugged his bony shoulders, shaking his head.

"Didn't see him!" He burst into a guffaw as Gina glared around and out into the catwalks, unable to see where the short purple gent had vanished to so abruptly. "Hey, so, have you picked out a stage name yet?"

"Shut up, Scott." Irritated, Gina looked back at her checklist, taking out a pen to write _channel four (blues) + spotlight_ next to her question mark for the magic act.

"I'm thinkin' _the Feisty Firebrand, Gypsy Gina!_ Or – or how about – _News, Flashier?"_

"Shut _up,_ Scott," Gina muttered, but her friend, too caught up in his own amusement, didn't notice how her eyes darkened at that one.

"No, wait! _NewsieFloozie!"_

 _"_ _Knock it off, dammit!"_ Gina yelled, startling Scott. As he stared at her, mouth hanging open, she ranted loudly, "I have one hell of a lot to get done today, and stupid, juvenile joking around is _not_ going to help finish any of it! So unless you have something _useful_ to say to me, please shut the hell up!"

"Okay," Scott said quietly. "It's cool."

Gina put her head in her hands a moment. She took several deep breaths.

"You okay?"

Gina nodded, but Scott wasn't fooled. She heard his chair squeak, and a second later his large hands were kneading her tense shoulders. She resisted at first, then gave in with a deep sigh. Finally she mumbled, "I'm sorry. Lotta crap going on."

"It's cool. You, uh, want to talk later?"

"I can't." Gina gently pushed her friend's hands away, straightening up, and studied her checklist again. "Have you done any work on the trees yet?"

"Only a rough. We should still do a tight-focus."

"Okay. Why don't we do that, then."

Without another word, they left the light booth and trudged down to the stage floor to adjust the lighting instruments on the sidelights, which would highlight every move the dancers made during their numbers. When the technicians had gone, a gray, primly scowling Muppet with her hair in a tight bun appeared in the booth. _Well! Flirting with old and young, Muppet and men alike, I see!_ the very disapproving Mrs Crimp, deceased, thought as she watched the fire-haired hussy emerging below on the stage. It was only too bad Aloysius hadn't witnessed his so-called girlfriend leading that magician on, with those too-high, ripped shorts and skimpy shirt – and then accepting the roving hands of that beanpole of a blonde young man! Mrs Crimp huffed. It was just as she'd feared: the tramp consorted with everyone behind his back! She nodded grimly to herself. The uncoiled cables had been a test, a warning, but clearly it was going to take stronger measures to dissuade the tall temptress.

"Well," Mrs Crimp muttered, "the nice thing about being dead, is that _she'll_ never know what sent her tumbling into the trash!"

Gathering up her skirts, the self-appointed guardian of her son's moral fiber sailed out of the booth, determined to put an end to this affair once and for all.

"Well, I guess brown is better than so-neon-plaid-it-hurts," Rhonda observed, giving the Newsman an appraising eye as he caught up to her and the camerasloth in the main lobby of the museum.

Newsie glowered at her, in no mood to put up with the rat's continual jibes. "You _said_ the blue shirt! It goes with the brown suit!" He glanced down at himself, tugging his left shirtsleeve a little more past the jacket cuff. The chocolate-shaded jacket and trousers, with bright blue pinstripes, had been one he'd picked out and Gina had approved, so he knew there was nothing wrong with it, and besides, the pale blue shirt and navy-and-brown striped tie looked very smart with it, and offset his new blue-over-black saddle Oxfords quite well.

Rhonda sighed. "Yeah, whatever. You look like a British pop star in that."

"Never mind," Newsie growled, peering around the cool, wide-open lobby for any sign of the scientists they were supposed to be interviewing. "Where are our experts?"

"Dunno. Eh, these lab geek types…maybe they got so caught up in poking through bones they forgot they were supposed to meet us here!"

"I hope not," Newsie sighed. "We have to keep the special report going another couple of days until the live feed Saturday." He shot her a glare. "You _did_ get a second camera for Saturday, right?"

"Yeah, yeah, the aardvark says he'll be there. Sheesh. What kinda amateur you take me for?" His news producer gave him an equally affronted glare, then looked around once more and reached for her cell phone. It looked expensive; Newsie wondered how on earth Steve Jobs came up with technology that tiny… "Hang on. Dang it…straight to voicemail! Ugh! I _hate_ scientists!"

Newsie reflected that Rhonda's antipathy seemed reasonable to him; he wondered whether, like Rizzo, she'd ever been held captive in an experimental laboratory. Before he could ask, a tall-headed, pale-felted, large-mouthed man in a white lab coat burst out of a door marked 'employees only' and hurried straight to them. Rhonda cringed as one of the Muppet's large, rubber-gloved hands reached forward, but all he did was grab the Newsman's hand and pump it happily. "Oh, _there_ you are! I was wondering why you were so late!"

"Late?" Newsie asked, taken aback. "Er…I thought you were meeting _us_ at one!"

"Huh? Oh, no, no, no! Didn't Mulch call you with the change of plans? Oh, never mind, you're here now, so let's do it!" the Muppet curator bubbled cheerfully, waving his hands as he practically danced in place. Newsie and Rhonda traded a bemused look.

"Uh, Dr Van Neuter, I had thought we'd be interviewing the two scientists who assembled most of the exhibits," Newsie ventured as they followed the enthusiastic man back through the employee entrance and into the florescent-lit, confusing corridors of the museum bowels.

"Oh, really? You haven't heard?"

"Heard what?"

"Oh. Well! Dr Abercrombie Fish, who discovered the _Muppeti quidquid,_ was supposed to fly in yesterday from Des Moines, where he was attending some sort of fundraiser for hurting children – at least, I _think_ that's what his secretary said. But somehow his pilot got lost and the plane seems to have _vanished!"_ Van Neuter said, his voice growing hushed a moment, relishing the mystery.

Newsie started. "That's terrible! Where was it last spotted?"

"Over Papua New Guinea. But not to worry! The natives haven't eaten anyone in almost seventy-five years!" Van Neuter bounced along cheerfully, flinging open the door to a storage room full of dusty crates and racks of specimen jars. Newsie shrank away from the weird, mostly unidentifiable things floating in formaldehyde, some tinted in bright colors. Rhonda poked his leg.

"Where'd they get this guy, 'Up with Geekle?'" she hissed at him.

"He's supposed to be an expert in his field," Newsie muttered back.

"Yeah, _left_ field," she snorted. "Hey Tommy. Film this. We can use it as filler." Obediently the sloth adjusted the camera, panning around the crowded aisle of preserved things as they walked. Newsie shuddered. "Or sell it to the Jaycees as a haunted house idea," Rhonda added thoughtfully.

"Uh, Dr Van Neuter, what about the other contributor?" Newsie asked.

"Hm? Oh! Well, Dr Bennigan O'Hara O'doul Friday says he's contracted a virus and can't make it." Van Neuter hummed to himself as he bobbled around to the opposite side of a large desk crammed into the tight space between seven or eight packing crates, and promptly the stethoscope around his neck went flinging off to the side, sticking oddly to the wooden side of a long crate marked "US GOVT TOP SECRET." When Rhonda and Newsie stared at this, Van Neuter chuckled awkwardly and tugged on the stethoscope. "Heh! Heh! Darned thing…frickle frackling magnetic charge…unnngh!" He yanked it loose with some difficulty, throwing it away to the other side, and beamed at the news crew. "Now, where were we?"

"A _virus?_ Seriously? Isn't that the lamest excuse for missing an interview?" Rhonda griped, hopping into the only available chair, a tiny folding campstool which looked too small for anyone else anyway. Uncomfortably, Newsie glanced around at the shelves of jars and the oddly magnetic crate, which seemed to be trying to tug the spiral metal binding of his reporter's notepad out of his pocket. He slapped a hand over it. The camerasloth stayed a few feet back, but still seemed to be feeling the pull on the camera, and the boom mic swayed a bit as he set it up overhead. Rhonda snapped at Van Neuter, "What is it with you lab geeks? Didn't he realize this is going to be televised nationwide to _all_ the affiliates? He didn't want his face on TV?"

"Not with green fur sprouting all over him," Van Neuter responded amiably. "He seemed very up, which is good. I always say a positive attitude is the best weapon against any illness! I spoke to him earlier right before his lips turned to clamshells."

Newsie shuddered, startled; even Rhonda blanched. Oblivious, Van Neuter smiled at them. "So! _I_ will be your guest today! I'm sure your viewers will be _much_ more impressed that you got to interview the actual curator of the whooooole exhibit!" He looked around for an intercom button, but if there was one, it was hidden by the stacks of lab journals and random computer parts strewing his desk. "Oh where _is_ that darned thing… Muuuuullllch! Mulch Mulch Mulch!" he yelled suddenly. Newsie wondered whether this was the odd man's way of cursing until a lumbering blue quasimodo suddenly popped into view. "Oh _there_ you are! Mulch, bring us some coffee!"

"Aw ruh roongenuh urgh awwah!" the blue Muppet argued, gesturing at his boss. Newsie couldn't help but stare at the assistant's head; that had to be the _worst_ toupee he'd ever seen. It looked like a pile of fake Easter grass. 

"Well then go _get_ some! Honestly, what do I pay you for?" Van Neuter cried, waving his long arms in frustration.

"Ruh awaaraghh oonga!" Mulch grumbled, but shambled away again. "Ruh!" he added as he left.

"You'll be _lucky_ to get intern wages after _that_ little quip!" Van Neuter called back, then returned his attention to the others. "So! All set up? Great! Ask away!"

Newsie looked at Rhonda; she shrugged, rolling her eyes, and gestured at the sloth to begin filming. Newsie tried to get himself into a more professional frame of mind. "Ahem. Uh…Dr Van Neuter, what can you tell us about the proto-Muppet specimens on display in this groundbreaking exhibit?"

"Groundbreaking! Aha! That's _very_ good!" the curator exclaimed; Newsie remembered the camera was on, and refrained from giving Rhonda an incredulous look. Van Neuter beamed, grabbed the boom mic, and dragged it down to his mouth. A squeal came from the portable mixer the sloth carried. "Well! The so called proto-Muppets, or 'Muppet Hobbits' as we in the know like to call them…"

Rhonda gestured at Newsie furiously; feeling like an idiot for having to do it, Newsie gently pushed the mic out of Van Neuter's face, shaking his head. "Like, ow, dude," Tommy the sloth muttered, his brain catching up to his ears even as the feedback quit.

"Oh, sorry! Like I was saying, the proto-Muppets were a _mysterious_ race! We know they lived in caves, where they had some form of organized religion, and made beautiful tools and personal ornaments! A very advanced species for the time!"

"Do we have examples of any of the tools this enigmatic race of Muppets may have used?" Newsie asked.

"Oh, certainly!" Van Neuter scrabbled through his desk, producing something that looked like a vegetable peeler. "We have _this!_ Note, if you will, the careful craftsmanship, the curved form, the –ow—sharp blade! Dr Fish had speculated these early Muppets may have been carnivores, and this was used for scraping the flesh off a three-day-old carcass of a Muppet elephant, left rotting for days in—"

"That's a vegetable peeler," Rhonda interrupted.

"What?" The curator stared at the instrument, small eyes widening. "Oh! Hah hah! So it is!" He tossed the thing wildly away, but the magnetic crate attracted it with an audible _zzhhhhooop._ "Silly me! Well, that really isn't my area of expertise, you know! I'm really more into the biology than the anthropology. But Mulch here has been working on a translation of the proto-Muppet language!"

Everyone shuffled aside as the grouchy hunchback distributed paper cups of strong-smelling black coffee, muttering until he heard his name being mentioned. "Uhhrah? Awrh," he nodded, his expression turning proudly complacent. Behind his back, Newsie and Rhonda each sniffed at their darkly ominous coffees, glanced at one another – Rhonda had been given a huge cup, Newsie a tiny one – silently traded cups, sniffed again, and as one set the dubious refreshment aside on the crates.

Newsie tried to resume the interview. "Er…Mr Mulch? What can you tell us about this ancient Muppet language?"

He regretted the question immediately. The blue hunchback hogged the camera, elbowing Newsie aside so he was half-squashed against a box. "Ruh rah _rahrah_ runga awoo ungh errah!" Mulch growled importantly, waving his hands to make whatever point he was making.

"Oh, you did _not_ go to Cornell! _You_ padded your résumé!" Dr Van Neuter snapped, and an argument broke out loudly between the two of them as to Mulch's actual linguistic qualifications. Rhonda smacked her face with a paw. Desperately Newsie tried to regain control of the interview.

"That's…that's great. Thank you." He flinched when the hunchback swung meaty arms and growled something which might have been protest, or insult, or merely acknowledgment, before trudging away. Straightening his jacket collar and tie, Newsie turned back to Van Neuter. "Uh, so, Doctor. Your background is as a biologist?"

"Veterinarian, actually. But I am absolutely _fascinated_ by the Muppasaurs!"

Rhonda, out of camerasight, shook her head, giving up. "Where the heck is that cat when I could really use him…"

"They, uh, they certainly are impressive fossils," Newsie said, hoping against hope to obtain _some_ kind of usable footage from this. "How many species are featured in the new exhibit?"

"Oh, a bazillion!" Van Neuter exclaimed happily, then revised his estimate. "Hm. No, actually, I think it's only about twelve. But that _does_ include the amazing, ginormous, absolutely _vicious_ specimen of _Muppetasaurus Tex!_ Isn't that one just to die for? Die for! Get it?"

"Tell us about the history of that particular fossil skeleton," Newsie offered. "I understand it was the first complete example of the species ever unearthed!"

"Oh, who cares about that? It's big, it's mean, it's dead!" Van Neuter cried, throwing his hands in the air. "Now what _really_ interests me is the DNA I've extracted from the bone marrow of that stupendously massive thigh bone! Did you know," he bent over the desk, staring wildly at the Newsman, "that Muppasaur DNA is _still_ present in their living descendants, Muppet _birds?_ Isn't that amazing? Why, with the right techniques, you could activate those dormant genes and turn a simple Muppet bird into a hideous, raving, slathering Muppasaur with _huge_ teeth!"

"Erk!" Newsie gulped involuntarily, jerking back, but suddenly Van Neuter lunged over the desk, grabbing Newsie's long, straight, pointed nose.

"Why, all I need is a Muppet bird to inject a little prehistoric DNA into, to trigger the retro-genetic engineering process! You're not a bird, are you?" He twisted Newsie's nose this way and that, peering closely at it.

Outraged, the Newsman yanked free, touching his fingertips to his bruised nose. "No!" he honked angrily.

"Oh," Van Neuter said, crestfallen. "Looked like a beak to me. My mistake!" He turned to Rhonda and the sloth, frowning. "You two aren't birdish at all, are you?"

"ThanksDocthat'sallthetimewehavetoday," Rhonda squeaked in one breath, grabbing Newsie's coatsleeve. "Cut!"

"Cut?" Van Neuter repeated, eyes brightening.

"Ack! Run!" Rhonda shrieked, bolting for the exit.

"It does _not_ look like a beak!" Newsie snapped at the curator, nervously backing away as well. When he was clear of the tight area around the desk, he turned and hastened after his producer. The sloth slowly lowered the camera, looked at Van Neuter, shrugged, and began packing up the equipment.

"Oh," Van Neuter said, disappointed. "Oh well. Bye-bye! Enjoy the exhibit!" He looked smugly at Mulch as the assistant peered after the slouching sloth. "Well! _That_ should prove to you I can _so_ do well on TV!"

"Ungah row row raffahunga!" Mulch snorted, starting yet another argument.

"What! I do _not_ need camera makeup! I have _perfect_ felt!..."

In the relatively fresh air of the museum lobby, Newsie paused to take a deep breath after running all the way out. Rhonda was leaning against a pillar, panting, and gave him an angry look as he approached. "What did I tell you? I _hate_ scientists!"

Newsie didn't have anything to add to that. "Can you…do you…do you think we can use any of that?" he puffed.

Rhonda sighed. "Maybe. I should be paid extra for all the editing I have to do for your reports!" She shook her head, looked around, and pointed at the barosaurus display just inside the Central Park West entrance. "Creepy things. That's what the viewers wanna see. Let's go get a shot of one of the smaller Muppasaurs for your stand-up and then get the footage back to the station for cutting and pasting."

"All right," Newsie agreed, beckoning to the sloth just now emerging from the employee door. He frowned at his notes. "I'm going to have to redo the intro completely! None of what I wrote could possibly prepare anyone for that ranting vet!"

"Don't worry about it," Rhonda promised him as they set off for the next floor. "I'll cut the ranting. We'll just shoot more of the exhibit. Teaser shots, and you'll voiceover."

"Voiceover?" Newsie frowned again. That was the lowest form of airtime a network correspondent could get.

Rhonda shrugged. "Hey, your back was to the camera for the whole interview anyway – unless you want we should _use_ the bit with him grabbing you by the schnozz. Nice profile, by the way."

"Absolutely not!" Newsie fumed. "You know, I am _sick_ of everyone going out of their way to humiliate me!"

"What?" Surprised, Rhonda stopped, but Newsie stomped past her, still furious. "Newsie, no one's—"

"'Pretty in Plaid'? 'Newsgeek'? 'El Pineapple'?" Newsie was close to shouting. "You think it's _funny?_ You don't think I put my heart and soul into this job every day?"

"Whoa," Rhonda said, scurrying after him. "Hey, look, I thought we were friends! Friends kid around, right? I wasn't trying to—"

"Well _I don't kid!"_ Newsie roared, whirling around to yell in the rat's face. Rhonda flinched at the full blast of anger from that wide mouth, then stood up taller, set her paws on her hips, and glared at him.

"Fine! Fine!" she squeaked angrily. "Ya don't have to blow my fur off!" She smoothed down her blouse, tossed her nose in the air, and huffed at him, "Forget it! I'm just gonna go back and start editing your wonderful, professional, _perfect_ little interview, and _if_ and _when_ you wanna join me in recording something _constructive_ you're welcome to it!" She immediately headed back down the stairs to the lobby, muttering as she went: "Sheesh! Give a reporter a little face time with the camera, they start thinking they're frog's gift to network news!"

Tommy paused, looking slowly from Rhonda to Newsie and back, shrugged again, and started lugging the equipment after the rat. The Newsman felt a pang of guilt. Kidding or no, his producer, editor, and yes, friend was indeed a pro at her job, and he had no right to yell at her as he'd seen the station manager do to the coffee interns. He realized he was still smarting from the conflict this morning. _What the heck am I going to do? I don't know how to make Mother like Gina – I couldn't even get her to like ME!_ he thought, instantly depressed again. Come to think of it, it wasn't like his mother to let an issue drop for even an hour, and it had been several since he'd had to deal directly with her. Where was she? This did _not_ bode well at all! What if she was harassing Gina? Then he'd have to try to calm down _both_ of them! Shivering unhappily, he looked all around, but saw no sign of the ghost. _Of course, that means nothing,_ he realized. _She could be right here and you'd never know it until she said something. If she was good at that when she was alive, how much better is she now?_ The prospect was far from comforting. His nervous temperament had been well-earned after numerous incidents of his mother sneaking up behind him to try and catch him doing something he shouldn't be, such as taking a cookie from her stash of them. He'd almost never actually defied her, despite her constant belief to the contrary. _Well,_ he thought grimly, _then it's about time you did._

Taking a deep breath, he glanced warily around once more, and whispered to the air, "Mother, if you're here, I'm not giving her up. Not ever!" He waited, but no reply came. Only slightly relieved, he ran after Rhonda. "Rhonda! Wait! I'm sorry!"

The magician had been trying a coin trick for almost ten minutes now; Gina hoped this wasn't the extent of his repertoire or it would be a very long evening. Although she'd reminded the strange Muppet this was only the dry run-through for the tech crew to get their routine in place, and so he didn't really need to do a complete act, Mumford had insisted upon performing "just one trick," and announced he was going to make a gold coin appear in an audience member's pocket. After numerous waves of his wand, and repeated pronouncements of some nonsense about peanut butter sandwiches, the coin he'd tossed into the air and made to vanish had yet to turn up anywhere.

"Okay already," Gina growled. "Can we just move on?"

Scott snickered, slumped back in an audience seat at the edge of the stage while Gina paced the aisle impatiently. His long outstretched arms showed off a multitude of tattoos, including the newest one on his left forearm, a rendering of the Great Gonzo dancing on a tightrope. When Gina had asked about the odd body art, Scott had merely said "That's how I feel most days." The sudden drag in the tech run-through felt more like an endless parade of elephants than a tightrope act to Gina. Scott asked now, "You want I should tell him to get the heck off the stage?"

"No," she decided, an idea forming. "No, I'm just going to send on the acrobats. He'll get out of the way or they'll tumble on him!"

"Uh…the coin will now appear…in the hands of that spry young fellow there!" Mumford said, gesturing up with his wand at one of the other volunteer electricians currently adjusting the hanging angle of one of the downlights above the stage. "I wave my wand, I say the magic words – _á la peanut butter sandwiches! –_ and the coin is now –"

He looked up expectantly. The electrician shook his head and went back to his task. Disappointed, Mumford's arms dropped to his sides. "I just don't understand it! _That_ trick usually works!" He frowned. "Maybe I shouldn't have used a subway token painted gold…"

"Hey acrobats! Acrobats next please!" Gina yelled into the curtained-off section which served in lieu of an actual wing in the square performance space.

"Wait! I know! I shall pull a rabbit out of my hat!"

"Do they still use real rabbits for that trick?" Scott wondered.

"I doubt this guy is union- or PETA-approved," Gina grumbled, watching the tumblers come running on, disrupting Mumford's endless rehearsal. She glanced at her watch, pulling her hair back yet again. It didn't seem to want to stay in place today…yet another in a series of irritants she could really do without. "After these guys, I say we break for dinner, and come back and just do a spot check for the steel drum player and a dimmer check before the full dress. We don't have time for much else now."

"Sounds like a plan," Scott agreed, getting to his feet and stretching. Mumford, ousted from his spot, wandered away, still complaining that he wasn't finished practicing. Gina ignored him, looking instead at the way the lights hit the acrobats, watching for any dim spots which would necessitate a refocus. As she moved around to the back of them to see whether any of the front lights were shining too harshly into the eyes of the performers, she felt a snap at the back of her head. The hair scrunchie bounced away, and all her hair came sliding down.

"Ow! What the—" Angrily, she bent to retrieve the somehow-snapped band of lace before anyone tripped on it, and heard Scott's frightened bellow:

"HEADS!"

Years of training paid off; she ducked to one side just as the lighting instrument came crashing to the stage floor, right where she'd been standing. The acrobats, thrown off balance just as they were attempting their pyramid-hoist, faltered and the heavy guy at the top toppled over, knocking Gina down as he fell. Scott was there immediately, helping everyone to their feet, then yelling up at the techie on the catwalk: "Hey! Safety cable! Safety cable! Does that _mean_ anything to you?" Gina brushed herself off, her knees bruised, her anger rising rapidly. Every light in the building was supposed to be attached to the grid not only by their heavy clamps, but with a loop of strong airline cable as well to prevent just such an accident.

"Dang, man, I'm sorry," the electrician called down, sounding shaken. "It _was_ safety-cabled! I was just slidin' it along the bar and the clamp slipped and the cable broke!"

Gina and Scott looked at each other. The acrobats milled around uncertainly like spooked sheep in tights. "It's okay," Scott told them. "We were gonna break for dinner anyway. Why don't you guys take a break too? See you at rehearsal later." Grumbling, the tumblers crowded off. Scott studied his friend. "Uh…you okay?"

"Fine. Great. Just lucking fuvely," she snarled. That was an awful lot of accidents for one day. First the cable tripping her, then her scrunchie, the light, and the acrobats all at once? Worried, she touched the copper beads strung around her neck. _It's been fine for months…but what if Newsie inherited his curse thing from his mother?_ The discovery that the Newsman had a psychokinetic energy field surrounding him at all times, which caused the various mishaps during his News Flash job, and that Gina also had a similar energy which combined badly with her Muppet beloved's, had been a serious problem for them before, causing all manner of unhappy events until Dr Honeydew and Beaker had figured out the cause and made this special necklace for her. She'd worn it constantly since. _What if the nasty old biddy is giving off something as well, and messing up the field balance, or whatever Bunsen called it?_ She glanced worriedly at the grid again, wincing at the remembered pain of having fallen from it during that accident-prone time.

"C'mon, why don't we go get some eats? Ginger beer's on me," Scott offered, trying to lighten the mood.

Gina shook her head slowly. "No…you go ahead. I'll grab something on the way back."

"The way back? From where?"

"The Muppet Theatre. I think I need to go have a chat with some mad scientists," Gina said, and strode out of the Sosilly before Scott could respond.


	5. Chapter 5

Just as she reached the closed door marked with the international symbol for radiation hazard and a sign proclaiming _COLD FUSION IN PROGRESS – PLEASE KNOCK FIRST!_ , a loud explosion sounded from within. Concerned, Gina paused, then carefully knocked on the door. It swung open, then dropped off the top hinge. Dr Bunsen Honeydew stood in the opening, coughing and waving the smoke from his smoldering lab coat away from his face. "Oh…Miss Broucek! What a nice surprise! Beaker, look who's here! Isn't that nice?"

Wordlessly, the singed lab assistant poked his head out above Bunsen's. Coughing as well, he waggled his fingers in a wave. Gina nodded at him. "Uh, hi, guys. Are you…are you busy?"

"Oh, well, not terribly. We were just trying to extract the elusive cold fusion facilitator formula from carrot juice and paradimethylaminobenzaldehyde. The formula…" Bunsen coughed again. "The formula needs just a _teensy_ tweak!" Beaker shot his lab partner an incredulous look, then swiveled his head back and forth. "Do come in. How's the psychokinetic field anticharge portable modulating device holding up?" Bunsen trotted back inside the lab; Gina followed uncertainly.

"Well, that's…that's what I came to talk to you about." Beaker chivalrously cleared a stack of papers off a lab stool for Gina to sit. "Thank you…um, I think we have a problem."

"Oh? Beaker, would you fetch me the psychokinetic energy meter?" As Beaker rummaged through a large toybox, tossing aside the container of test strips for acidic titration, the self-adjusting slide rule they'd invented but never seemed able to sell the patent for, the remains of the gorilla sensor alarm, and, inexplicably, a rubber duckie, Bunsen gently lifted the copper beads off Gina's skin, peering at them with his glasses raised, then lowered again. "Hmmm…well, structurally, the circuit seems to be whole! What sort of psychokinetic events has the Newsman been experiencing?"

"It's not him, it's me," Gina began. She told them about the unusual string of bad luck she'd had today. "Uh…his mother showed up this morning. I was wondering if maybe her being around would throw off your field thingy."

Beaker found the psychokinetic energy detector finally, turning it on and scanning Gina with it. It beeped softly, steadily, and Gina tried not to fidget while Beaker swept it all along her body. He shook his head. Bunsen peered at the meter readout on the instrument. "Well," Bunsen mused, "your theory is sound in principle, especially if the Newsman's energy was an inherited trait! However, the field seems to be intact and I see no evidence of recent energy spikes around you. I can happily assure you, Miss Broucek, that the specific-gravity-calibrated personal field anticharge is still in place and operating within normal parameters!"

"Mormal marameters!" Beaker echoed, nodding.

"Great," Gina sighed.

"I beg your pardon," Bunsen said, "but I was under the impression that the Newsman's mother had, er, passed on some years ago?"

"Oh yeah. She's _dead._ Does that change your calculations?" Gina asked, frowning.

Beaker shivered, his head yanking down into his collar. "Oh, my!" Bunsen said, but then shook his head. "No, no…energy is energy. As you know, energy can neither be created nor destroyed, just morphed into something even stranger!" He looked again at the readout. "No, it would still register as a disturbance in your PKE field if the, er, late Mrs Newsman was responsible for throwing off your manifestational balance."

Gina started, the obvious explanation suddenly hitting her. "Responsible! Oh…" She muttered a long string of expletives which made Bunsen blush and Beaker cringe. "Oh, you bet she's responsible! I think I know what's going on." She frowned at the scientists. "Do you know anything about poltergeists?"

"Meep!" Beaker flinched, then began waving his hands in an "oh no" gesture. Bunsen put a thoughtful finger to his lips.

"Hmmm…well, Beaker and I _have_ done a little ghostbusting in our time; right, Beakie?" He smiled, ignoring Beaker's increasingly fervent denials. "I take it you think the ghost of the Newsman's mother has been pulling pranks on you?"

 _"_ _Pranks?_ I think she's trying to kill me!" Gina snapped.

"Oh. Oh dear…"

"Listen. Can you guys make me something to send a dead thing back where it belongs?" Gina demanded.

"How very intriguing!" Bunsen nodded. "That sounds like a wonderful idea! Don't you think so, Beaker?"

Beaker considered it warily. "Meep memoll mee meepie mee?" he asked.

Bunsen laughed lightly. "Well, of _course_ we'll have to field-test it! How else are we going to know whether it works?" Beaker sighed deeply, shrugging. Bunsen gave Gina a puzzled look. "Ah, Miss Broucek…not that I, as a scientist, put much faith in, well, supernatural things, you understand…but…doesn't your heritage have some experience with this sort of thing already?"

"I can't exorcise her," Gina growled, kicking the lab table in front of her. "Death won't let me. And if she _is_ trying to get her son back by offing _me,_ she's got another think coming!"

"Meep!" Beaker said, stepping back. He exchanged a worried look with Bunsen.

"Er…well, of course, if you'd like us to help, we're always happy to design a new toy, so to speak," Honeydew offered.

"I don't need a toy," Gina said darkly. "I need a weapon! This is _war."_

Ten minutes to air; the Newsman paced his dressing-room at the KRAK studios, too anxious to sit. He'd been unsatisfied with the report Rhonda had managed to edit out of the ridiculous footage from earlier in the afternoon, and had recorded his voiceover, which would play over a montage of shots Tony had taken of a couple of the smaller Muppasaurs and the walled-off gallery where the exhibit was shaping up. As a means of piquing interest, it felt terribly lacking to Newsie. He knew Rhonda agreed, but there was little either of them could do without the expert interviews they'd hoped for. Newsie's frustration had only increased when several phone calls he'd placed to paleontologists and anthropologists at Columbia, NYU, City College, and even SUNY had been met with brush-offs by secretaries and assistants. He couldn't even get a non-Muppet expert to comment. Now here he was, about to go on-air with the other Muppet news, and he'd have to stand by largely helpless and watch while his carefully-planned special report flopped. He could already hear the massive clicking sound of thousands of bored viewers switching channels. _To heck with scientists; to heck with exhibits and Muppasaurs!_ Angrily sighing, he sipped from a bottle of Muppawater, which was sponsoring the exhibit. _Better enjoy it while you can,_ he thought; _After tonight, they'll probably pull their support of this turkey. No more free bottles of Crushed Orange for you._

Rhonda tapped on the door, peeking in. "Hey, you ready?"

"Sure. Why not," Newsie answered, and strode out of the room after her.

"Cheer up. KRAS is showing that stupid dentist-wannabe reality show against us tonight; I bet almost nobody will even be watching us to begin with." Rhonda gave him a smile; Newsie simply threw her a glower. She shrugged, sighing. "Eh. Whaddayagonnado. Just make sure you get the rest of the news right."

"What's that supposed to mean? I always do!" Newsie snapped.

Rhonda frowned. "Oh, look who's still touchy! Did you forget suddenly that if it wasn't for me you'd be stumbling around half-blind in _Pittsburgh?"_

The Newsman stopped in the corridor to the studio soundstage, took a deep breath, and counted to ten silently while Rhonda tapped her foot, waiting. Finally he mumbled, "I'm sorry."

"You darned well should be," the rat sniffed. "Now hurry up!"

Trying to dampen the inner fire he sensed still on the verge of flaring up, the Newsman entered the studio, and suffered himself to be miked and soundchecked and the sharp edge of his long yellow-gold nose patted with a powder puff by the makeup artist. He took his place in his own chair just off the news set, taking his notes from a jacket pocket to go over them one more time. "Five minutes to air!" the stage manager called.

Rhonda suddenly reappeared at Newsie's knee. "Uh, I forgot to tell you: when the stage manager cues you during the opening, smile, okay?"

"What?"

"They're trying out a new opening, showing a closeup of everyone's face as your name is announced over the lead-in. They want to do it live every night, you know, sort of a 'here-we-are-tonight' thing. So just do me a favor and _pretend_ you're happy to be here, okay?" With a final glare, the rat hurried away to the production booth to oversee the cueing of his report footage.

Newsie sighed, tucking his notes away and watching the crew hurrying about, readying last-minute camera angles and turning on the rest of the bright set lights. _Smile? She has to be kidding!_ Feeling far from happy, he waited for the signal from the stage manager. Anchor Bart Fargo strolled by, hardly breaking a sweat, his dark hair sleekly styled. He paused, then looked over at the Newsman. "Uh, hey, Newsguy?"

Newsie glanced up, surprised. The anchor usually didn't bother to even acknowledge the Muppet reporter's presence when the cameras weren't on him. Fargo pointed at Newsie's suit. "That new?"

"Er…I guess so," Newsie replied, trying to recall if he'd worn this particular outfit on the air before now.

Fargo frowned, but only lightly, not wishing to put a wrinkle in his baby-smooth skin. "Well, don't wear it again! It's upstaging me." Without another glance, the star anchor of KRAK News continued along to the news desk and slid into his seat behind it, smiling at the sportscaster and the weather girl.

Fuming, the Newsman scowled after him. Suddenly the director was gesturing at the cameramen, and the stage manager called out, "And… _live_ in ten, nine, eight…"

Newsie tried to straighten his tie and cuffs and quickly smoothed down his auburn hair. "LIVE from the Channel Forty-two Studios, it's KRAK Big Apple News at Six! With anchor Bart Fargo…" the announcer belted out; Fargo turned on a dazzling white smile. "Sports with Rog 'the Stodge' Franklin! Weather with Susan Popatopolis! And Special Muppet Correspondent the Newsman." Newsie gave the camera pointing at him what he hoped was a smile. The theme music swirled down, and Fargo, beaming still, took over the lead.

"Good evening! Our top story tonight is President Obama's Middle East trip, which had to be cut short today when a suicide bomber was apprehended just outside the airfield gates at Kandahar!"

Newsie listened, sobered, realizing serious news really put his own problems in perspective. After all, his mother might be hard to deal with, but at least no one was in danger of dying…he hoped. Newsie gulped, recalling Death's vague threat. _'Or else?' What exactly does that mean? Would he really take me away? Would he take Gina?_ The thought frightened him immensely. _No, no, no! That has to be against the rules, doesn't it? So what could he do?_ Another awful possibility came to mind. _What if he just leaves Mother here, and I have to live with her all over again? Oh, please, no!_ Gina, he realized, would never accept that. She'd kick him out of the apartment. He'd be alone…well, unfortunately, not quite alone. _Oh no. Please, please, please, not that!_ How could he persuade his mother to back down?

Worried, he sat there in growing nausea until suddenly he realized his name had been mentioned. A moving flurry of floor personnel indicated the show was on a commercial break, and the stage manager was gesturing at him to get onstage; he'd be up next. Swallowing down his despair, Newsie hurried onto the set, stepping up onto his low platform so he'd be seen above the human-sized desk. Fargo hissed at him, "Camera hog! Go back to your ugly plaid!" He then smiled at the camera and pretended he'd just been chatting amiably with the Newsman as the feed switched back to them. "Now, here with the second of his special reports on the new exhibit at the Museum of Natural History, is our own Muppet Newsman! So what's going on at the museum, Newsie?"

The Newsman struggled to get his glare under control, hating Fargo for using his nickname after such a nasty directive. "Ahem! Er. Well, _Barty,_ quite a lot of interesting things!" He felt pleased when Fargo frowned; only an instant, but a frown nonetheless. "I visited the museum earlier today and spoke with the exhibit's curator, Dr Philip Van Neuter…" He really, really hoped Rhonda's editing job had turned out better than the actual interview. "He shared some fascinating facts about ancient Muppets." They cut to the taped, highly edited footage: the teaser shots of the mummy, Van Neuter saying "They had some form of organized religion, and made beautiful tools and personal ornaments! A very advanced species for the time!" Cut to the weird objects next to the mummy inside its case, and some other quick shots of artifacts on display.

Fargo leaned over to whisper to the Newsman, "Real nice report. What high school student did you pay to put it together?"

Flushed with anger, Newsie retorted quietly, "Uh…uh…nice hair. How many barrels of crude went into the styling gel?"

They glared at one another. The Newsman's voiceover sounded faintly in the studio while the footage segued from the ancient Muppet artifacts to one of the Muppasaurs, a tiny thing which vaguely resembled a chicken skeleton…if chickens had enormous head-crest bones and small, sharp claws on their wingtips. "Mysterious Muppet civilizations won't be the only things on display! The exhibit also features never-before-shown Muppet fossils!" The film cut to Van Neuter exclaiming happily about DNA and birds, but stopped just short of him grabbing Newsie by the nose. As the view changed back to more fast teaser shots of the various skeletons, including a very brief glimpse of the _M. Tex's_ toothy jaws, his voiceover finished up: "Birds…or terrible lizards? Science may still be determining the classifications, but I'm sure we can all agree these amazing specimens fall under the heading of 'not-to-be-missed!'"

"Get bent, Muppet," Fargo snarled at him.

Shocked, the Newsman snapped back, "Get flattened, stuffed shirt!" only a second before the feed went live once more. Quickly he tried to erase the glower from his face. "Uh…so! Be sure to check out this wonderful exhibit for yourself this weekend at the museum! Ahem…" Unnerved, he had to check his notes, squinting in the bright studio lights. "In other Muppet-related news: Following last month's landmark Supreme Court decision ruling the Frog Scouts could not discriminate against toads, a citizen's action group representing salamanders, skinks, and cute fluffy…bunnies," Newsie blinked at that one, then forged on, "Er…has…has demanded they all be allowed to join as well. The Frog Scouts declined comment." He flipped his notes to the next item, then looked back at the camera, trying to project a confidence and coolness he certainly didn't feel. "A new development in the Marvin Suggs paternity suit! Test results released today conclusively prove that Suggs is _not_ the father of any of the Benson's Babies. The Muppaphones went on record for their leader, saying, quote, 'He has never, nor _will_ he ever, have the opportunity to father _anything.'_ Ahem…" No more items. Relieved, Newsie tossed it over to the weathergirl. "And now for Susan with your KRAK local forecast! Susan?"

As the weathergirl smiled from her stance in front of the bluescreen which would, on the viewer's televisions, show up as a computer-generated weather map, Newsie stepped down from his platform, retreating to his chair. He wouldn't be needed again until the closing bit, when he was expected to stand up with the rest of them and pretend to be having a nice chat as the credits rolled. He hated the falsity of it. He'd known he was in for a certain amount of pretense when he was rehired by the network earlier this year, but he'd never expected this kind of prejudice, jealousy, or whatever was prompting Fargo to be nasty to him. _All this over my clothing? How shallow is this guy, anyway?_ Newsie wondered. He shot the anchor a glare as Fargo went past him, leaving the set, probably heading for the bathroom to make sure his hair was pretty. Sunk in gloom, he was startled when the news director suddenly loomed over him.

"Hey, fill in!"

"What?" Confused, Newsie stared up at the director. The man was gesturing furiously at the set, though looking at Newsie.

"Fill in for Bart! He's throwing up in the men's room," the director said.

Newsie blinked in surprise. "He's…he's sick?"

The director sighed impatiently. "Yeah. Someone switched his coffee for Pink Tummy Sludge. He didn't notice it until he'd drunk two cups. Get up there!"

"Uh…er…but I…"

"What are you waiting for, an engraved invitation? Just read off the prompter! Geez, a second-stringer who doesn't _jump_ at the chance to get in that seat? What's the matter with you?" the director harangued him, and Newsie, blushing, scrambled from his chair and up into the anchor's seat. It was too low for him. He stared out at the tech crew, but only a couple of seconds remained until they would be back from commercial again; no time to switch it out for his platform! Thinking fast, he stood up in the chair, fingertips lightly touching the news desk for balance. The director raised his hands to the ceiling. The stage manager cued Newsie; the camera was on him!

"Er…welcome back to Big Apple News on KRAK! This is your Muppet Newsman, filling in for Bart Fargo, who is…er…" He glanced at the sports guy, who shook his head slightly. Improvising, Newsie finished, "Who is on special assignment. Ah…in other news tonight…" He squinted out at the prompter screen, wishing he had notes to read from instead; now that he actually had a prompter feed, he found himself uneasy at the prospect of misreading the scrolling print. "Councilman Venkman today protested Mayor Bloomberg's new city ordinance which states that no more than two hundred ectoplasmic entities may be confined in the same containment grid at one time, for humane reasons! Councilman Venkman reportedly said that enforcing such a law would bring about, quote, 'a disaster of Biblical proportions.' The Mayor has responded to Venkman's concerns, 'Maybe the Councilman should spend some time trapped in there before he decides what _compassionate incarceration_ really is!'" Gulping nervously, the Newsman paused before going on to the next story. "The hunt for the serial dumpster thief known only as 'Lefty' continues tonight! Police thought they had the most-wanted criminal cornered in an alleyway behind Clifford's Soy Chicken and Waffles restaurant earlier this evening, only to find the thief had vanished into thin air –whooof!" He gasped as a small but surprisingly heavy Muppet fell from the ceiling onto him.

"Never take me alive, coppers! Never! Aaaagh!" Lefty cried as Newsie shoved him away, and the studio securitymen immediately pounced. As they dragged the diminutive trenchcoated con man from the studio, he shrieked, "They're MY nickels! MINE! Youse guys'll never find 'em!"

Shaking, Newsie tried to regain his composure, looking back at the prompter. "Er…well…it seems the thief is now in custody; a KRAK exclusive!" Nothing else showed up on the screen for him to read. Relieved, he was about to turn to the sportscaster when an intern darted up, crouched out of camerasight, and handed the Newsman a note. "Oh…ah…a breaking news item!" He read it cold. "The latest statistics from the city's Department of Moral Security reveal that too many New Yorkers are now living in sin with vastly unsuitable partners!" Choking to a halt, Newsie looked out at the studio; sure enough, his mother stood coldly in the center of it. Everyone else became aware of the gray old lady at the same moment. "Er, uh – and now for major league scores!" Before the camera even cut to 'the Stodge,' Newsie had jumped from the chair and bolted for his dressing-room.

That didn't ensure an escape, unfortunately. No sooner had he slammed the door behind him than his mother snapped, "Have I made myself clear enough yet?"

"Ack!" Newsie jumped, spinning around to find her directly behind him. As a young man, she'd insisted he never shut his door to her, hinting distastefully but vaguely at the 'evil things young men are prey to in their private time,' which he'd never understood; now it seemed he _still_ couldn't shut her out. "Mother! I was _live on TV!_ What are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing? Trying to put my wayward son back on the path to goodness, that's what!"

"What is _wrong_ with me dating Gina? She's good for me – she's good _to_ me!" Newsie protested. "She encourages my work! She makes me feel happy!"

"That is _exactly_ what's wrong! You are entirely too happy! I had always hoped that if you _had_ to be involved with a girl, it would be a proper Muppet your age – not some young, non-Muppet tramp! Do you know what she's doing right now? She's flirting with other men, that's what!" Mrs Crimp lectured sternly.

"She would never do that!" Newsie said, startled. _No! She wouldn't! Mother is just trying to rattle you!_

"She most certainly is! I told you, Aloysius, that little whelp is a shameless hussy! Now you break it off at once!"

A knock sounded on the door. "Uh…hey Newsie? You okay?" Rhonda called.

Ignoring her for the moment, the anguished Newsman shouted at his mother, "Mother, will you _stop_ calling her names? I love her! She loves me! I'm not walking away from that!"

"You most certainly _are!_ You have _never_ known what's good for you, you little ingrate! How many years have I spent feeding you, clothing you, making sure you were clean?"

"For frog's sake, Mother!"

"Uh…Newsie?" More knocking. "Hey, I called your cab, it should be here any minute! You still have a show tonight at the Muppet Theatre!"

Newsie put both hands to his head, overwhelmed. Mrs Crimp sniffed haughtily. "And you have a _rat_ for your girl Friday? I told you nothing respectable would come of you hanging around that theatre!"

"Mother, it is my _job!_ I'm not loitering like some bum on a corner! I have two legitimate jobs: one here, one at the theatre! And more than that, the Muppets are my friends!" Newsie groaned.

"Two jobs? You see! What did I say about going into accounting instead?" his mother argued, getting in front of him no matter which way he turned to avoid seeing her. "Not to mention, if you'd been working in an accounting firm like your Uncle Joey, by now you'd have settled down with a nice clean girl instead of making time with that – that –"

 _"_ _Shut up!"_ Newsie yelled, startling his mother; she actually took a step back. "D—it, Mother, I'm _happy_ with Gina! Why can't you just accept that? Why can't you just be happy for me, for once? Just once!" He suddenly realized he was actually shaking his fist in his mother's face. Stunned, he froze. Mrs Crimp reacted first: with a palm so chilly the cold burned him, she slapped him on the cheek. Hard. Newsie reeled.

 _"_ _That_ is for disrespecting your mother! If you ever, _ever,_ raise your hand to me again, Aloysius, I will see to it you're locked up where no one will ever see you again – except me, because _I'm_ the only one who cares about you! You remember that! You _remember_ that, when you find out how that nasty redhead has been playing around behind your back, that little slu—"

Outraged, the Newsman slapped her across the mouth.

Both of them stopped, shocked. Newsie cringed immediately. _Oh good grief! I hit her! I hit my MOTHER!_ Backing away, gulping, feeling sick, he stared at the ghost, whose eyes grew cold and blue and fiery, like that scary dragon-thing who haunted the Muppet Theatre. Mrs Crimp, deceased, moved her jaw, though no sound came out yet; she seemed to be building to an eruption.

Choking, the Newsman fled, bowling over Rhonda on the other side of the door as he hurtled past. He ran into the street just as a cab pulled up, yanked open the door, and dove into the back seat. The cabbie gave him an uncertain look. "Mu-Muppet Theatre, please," Newsie gasped. He peered fearfully over the edge of the seat out the back window as the cab pulled away, but his mother didn't seem to be pursuing. Shivering, he wrapped his arms around himself, freezing despite the sultry August night and the apparent lack of air conditioning in the cab. _Oh no. Oh no. Oh no. What have I done? How could I?_ Panicked, Newsie huddled tightly into himself, his cheek still stinging, but the rest of him going numb. What dire punishment would befall him for that? Could he ever make it up to her? Was there even a way to atone for an insult done to one's dead mother?

Terrified, the Newsman kept replaying the awful thing he'd just done over and over in his mind, sickened by his own anger. One thought kept surfacing: _I'm a horrible son. Horrible. Mother was right about me. She was right._ He couldn't help it; tears began trickling down his face, and his nose clogged with sniffles.

The cabbie shoved a box of tissues through the partition window at him. "Uh, hey, mac…use dese, okay? I don't need no germs in my cab, aright?"

Nodding obediently, Newsie accepted the tissues, blowing his nose loudly. He used his handkerchief to dry his eyes, and when the cab slowly rolled to a stop in front of the Muppet Theatre, he fumbled more bills than necessary through the window. "I'm sorry," he muttered, "I'm so sorry!"

"Huh? Hey mac, you okay?"

"I'm so, so sorry…" Newsie choked, and his unsteady feet carried him through the lobby doors. By the time he reached the orchestra pit, he was crying again, helpless to stop it, but routine forced him onward, and he brushed past Scooter and Kermit and everyone else on his way through backstage, ignoring all, speaking to no one, barely able to see.

"Uh, Newsman, you all right?" Kermit called after him, curious.

At the sound of his boss' voice, the Newsman looked up blearily. "Fine," he said hoarsely.

"Okay," Kermit said. "Uh, because you look a little…ah, off-balance."

"I'm fine," Newsie said firmly, trying to get himself composed quickly. He gave Kermit a nod, yanked down his sleeves, turned, and promptly tripped, tumbling noisily down the stairs to the green room.

Kermit sighed, shaking his head. "Okay," he called down, "as long as you're all right!" _Good grief. What next?_ Before Kermit could speculate further as to what had the Newsman out of kilter, Scooter ran up.

"Hey, chief? Muppy's stuck in a pot over on stage left!"

Irritated, Kermit waved him off. "So? We're about to open the show! The dog can wait!" Scooter shrugged, nodding. Curious suddenly, Kermit asked, "Why is he stuck in a pot?"

"Well, you know the Chef is up first tonight?"

"Yeah?"

"Uh…he was saying something about Korean barbeque!"

"Eep!" Kermit gulped. "Oh, good grief! _Chef!"_ The two of them ran off to rescue the dog from becoming a potsticker, and for the moment the frog completely forgot the Newsman.

The steel drum player seemed to be enjoying herself, her eyes sparkling under long lashes, making the most of her colorful, ruffled dress as she swayed in time to her own light-fingered drumming. A band of pigs dressed for a luau (though as guests, not the main course) backed her up. Absently Gina watched from the lighting booth window, lulled into quietude by the thus-far smooth rehearsal. It wasn't until the number ended, the drummer curtsied, and the pigs oinked appreciatively that Gina realized the band had been Muppet pigs and a human lady, and that made at least two acts in this charity show which involved Muppets. She sighed. "What theatre am I at again?" she asked Scott.

He glanced up from the reel-to-reel machine, which he'd just cued to play the theme music for the magician, up next. "What theatre do you _think_ you're at?" he responded, grinning.

"I have no idea anymore," she grumbled. At least nothing else unlucky had happened tonight; maybe the old bat had abandoned her…but that probably meant she was tormenting her son instead. _Oh, Newsie. I can't believe this is happening,_ she thought, depressed. _I'll have to at least put up protections around the apartment so she won't come back there…but we'll have to get rid of her once and for all._ In the months they'd been together, Newsie had spoken very little about his mother, and of his father said only he never knew him, the Muppet in question having died when Newsie was an infant. Gina had noticed that whenever she shared some happy story from her own childhood, of going to Romani festivals with her Grandmama Angie, or of playing hooky from school to float sailboats in the park, or of birthday parties or handmade Mother's Day gifts or being tucked in after a bedtime story of traditional Gypsy fairytales, Newsie would listen intently, give her a smile which seemed somewhat wistful, kiss her, and change the subject. _No wonder he never shared any good childhood memories in return…he probably doesn't have any!_ Gina frowned, biting her lip, barely remembering to adjust the lighting in time as the steel-drum band left the stage and the Amazing Mumford's table with a large black top-hat sitting atop a sparkly purple cloth was wheeled out.

After the musical flourish – complete with canned cheers and clapping – no one appeared onstage. Gina looked down, her gaze roving the empty floor, seeing no movement from behind the curtains. She sighed, annoyed. "Maybe he didn't hear his cue," Scott offered.

"Yeah, play it again," Gina said. Once more Scott played the reel tape: music, applause. This time, a cheesy burst of blue smoke went off center stage, and the Muppet magician emerged from it, coughing as he tried to bow to the nonexistent audience.

"Thank you! Thank you! Yes, I, the Amazing – cough, cough, cough – the Amazing Mumford, will now perform for you a trick so astonishing, so astounding, so a _mazing,_ you'll all be talking about it for months!"

Gina doubted that. She tweaked the levels of the brighter blue lights, although why anyone would _want_ to see the corny clown was beyond her. At least Alan, on followspot right now, was able to keep the magician easily centered; then again, it wasn't like a lot of actual _movement_ seemed involved here. "Yes, my friends! I, the Amazing Mumford, have here a pretty, shiny, gold coin!" He held up a large, sparkling coin, showing it from side to side. "Now, I will make this coin disappear into thin air!" Gina wondered if anyone had ever tried to vanish something into _thick_ air. "I wave my magic wand, and I say the magic words: á la peanut butter sandwiches!" He tossed the coin into the air; Alan followed it up with the spotlight, and it actually did seem to disappear. "Ha ha! Yes! And now, I shall make the coin appear again, in the pocket of that lady in the front row!" He pointed his wand at the pretty steel drum player, who seemed genuinely surprised. Gina shook her head. _I see he found an accomplice fast,_ she thought. "One wave of the wand! Two waves! And…á la peanut butter sandwiches!"

He looked expectantly at the girl in the tropical dress. She shook her head, perfectly coiffed dark hair sliding over her bare shoulders. "What? Melanie? You don't have the coin?" Mumford asked.

The girl laughed. "My name's Suzanne!"

"Ah! _That's_ the problem! I will now make the coin reappear in _Suzanne's_ pocket, not Melanie's! I wave my magic wand…"

Sighing, Gina slumped in her chair. This might take a while. She glanced at the booth clock; she'd give this joker exactly five minutes and then send the acrobats on. She wondered how Newsie's night was going; he should be finishing up his regular newscast about now, and heading to the Muppet Theatre soon. With his salary from the KRAK job, he really didn't need the second gig, but she understood why he'd want to stay on with the Muppets. They'd proven to be remarkably supportive friends, even when everyone thought Newsie was responsible for the partial destruction of the theatre. _A good troupe,_ she mused, but her thoughts turned dark again quickly. _At least, most of 'em are. I guess even Muppets have bad apples._ How had such a mean-spirited, narrow-minded, repressive woman raised such a generous, thoughtful, quietly passionate man?

Onstage, Mumford was turning to the stage manager, then another techie, then one of the acrobats watching from the side, and even his hat, confused. "Not here either? Huh...I just don't understand it! Where did it go? Confounded magic coin!..."

It was that kind of horrible, overbearing attitude, Gina told herself, which had always made her determined to be free. She'd been mocked, called names, even spat upon once as a child for being Gypsy; but on the other side, the old-timers she'd met of the Romani hadn't inspired her to copy them, either. _All of them so caught up in their traditions and rules, trapping themselves in their own little-minded cages!_ She was proud of her heritage, but except for her grandmother, she'd never met an older Gypsy who thought it was acceptable for a girl to go into theatre. Music, perhaps, but not the actual theatre. Both cultures still seemed to regard the profession as tainted somehow, even though Gina had never wished to be onstage, just to work behind it, taking pleasure in seeing a design through from a paper sketch all the way to a successful show, or even just using her energy and determination to make a bunch of rusty, uncooperative lighting instruments bring forth subtle effects which would move people as much as the words spoken by the actors, although most of the time the audience never knew their emotions were being played upon by the lights. Just seeing a cue well-done made her happy. Grandmama Angie hadn't really understood, but nevertheless she'd supported Gina, encouraging her dream and her drive, even telling distant relations proudly how her granddaughter was an artist! She'd never scolded Gina for going on dates with _gadjo_ boys in high school and college, merely warning her to never let a boy show her disrespect – to her mind or her body. Clearly, the Newsman had never basked in that kind of parental love.

Angrily, Gina picked at a loose thread on her cutoff shorts, completely forgetting her five-minute limit; below, Mumford was finally giving up. "Ah, well, I don't know what happened with that…but on to my next trick! Ladies and gentlemen, I, the Amazing Mumford, will now pull a _rabbit_ out of _this_ hat!"

The old woman's insults this morning made it clear what she thought of Gina. _Is the hag in a twist because I'm human, or because I'm Gypsy, or because her son is living with me – or all of the above? What right does she have to say a word about any of it? She's dead! The dead have no rights over the living!_ Disgusted, Gina thought about Gypsy custom; traditionally, when someone died, their name was never spoken again unless absolutely necessary so that the ghost wouldn't hear and come back. Wine and food were left out for them at the gravesite. All their possessions would be burned, sold, or given away outside the community…a custom Gina had broken by hanging onto her grandmother's shawl, which had wound up being the thing that saved her Newsie from being swept into a deadly whirlpool during that weird, dark time right after they'd become a couple. _Good thing his family's not Gypsy,_ she thought. _There's no way in Hades I'd ever be subservient to HER as a mother-in-law!_ Traditionally, a bride of the Rom was expected to move in with her new husband's family and obey his mother. Then again, Gina had no desire to be married. She'd had friends who'd dated a long time and finally married their lovers…and almost all of them had wound up quarreling, turning nasty and bitter and divorcing. Whatever it was about a little piece of paper and a ring that seemed to change true love into obligation and resentment overnight, she wanted no part of it. She was glad Newsie hadn't even brought the subject up; the closest he'd come to it was telling her stories about the courtship of the Frogs. However, he'd related histories of many of the Muppets, as a way to include her in his world, and she didn't think he'd been trying to drop any hints with hilarious narrations of the wedding-within-a-movie with a real minister, and how both Kermit and Piggy had played games with one another over being wedded or not right up to the actual day of the ceremony. Newsie did know how to tell a story thoroughly, she thought with a brief smile.

"No? Well, let me try one more time! I wave my magic wand…I say the magic words…"

 _Magic words. I wish I had some to fix this mess,_ she thought. _If I can't just exorcise her, will Death accept it if the lab guys come up with a ghost-busting machine?_ Shivering suddenly, she scooted her chair away from the air vent blowing a cool breeze overhead. _He's not taking my Newsie! Not to please that horrible old hag!_ She didn't even want to wonder how long his life would be; he didn't look or act his age at all – nor did Kermit nor Rowlf or the others, and she knew almost all of them were quite a bit past her own thirty-one years. However long a Muppet lifespan, she was sure _now_ was too early for her beloved Newsman, and she'd fight to keep him alive and out of his evil parent's clutches. She sighed again, still lacking answers.

"Still nothing? Hmmm…" Mumford scratched his balding head. "I guess I'll just have to keep practicing…"

"Keep at it, Mumfy!" the steel-drum player encouraged him. Gina glanced down at her, then stared in shock. The formerly-lovely young woman now had large rabbit ears, enormous bent whiskers sticking out of her cheeks, and was munching on a carrot as she flounced out of her seat and hopped away from the stage area. Oblivious to the change, the magician sighed, picking up his hat and carrying it off dejectedly.

"I just don't understand why I can _never_ do that trick right!" he complained to himself.

Gina looked over at Scott. He shrugged. "Oo…kay," Gina said. She shifted the console sliders, bringing up bright, cheerful pink and orange lights as the tumblers romped onstage, bounding over one another with many a "Hey! Hah!" Settling back in her seat again, looking at but not really watching the acrobats, she wondered how her Newsie was handling his night. Hopefully, it was less strange than her own.


	6. Chapter 6

Rowlf banged joyously on the piano, his latest upcoming weekend visit with the glamorous and tantalizing Foo Foo on his mind as he howled out: "You shake my paws and play fetch with my brain – Too much love drives a dog insane – My house is broke, oh what a joke! – Goodness gracious, great howls of fur!" The Mayhem joined in raucously as Rowlf swept both forepaws down the length of the keyboard and launched into the Jerry Lee Lewis-inspired tune full-blast. The band, the audience, and everyone backstage who could hear the happily rowdy song loved it…everyone, that is, except one certain journalist pacing the tiny confines of his dressing-room.

 _I don't deserve to be walking around free after that!_ he thought, wringing his hands so hard the felt was starting to ache. _Maybe Mother was right…what have I become? A brute who hits his own mother, that's what! How did I get here? I never used to resort to violence for disagreements!_ If anything, the violence had usually been done to _him,_ not the other way around. _No wonder she's disgusted with me! Has…has my relationship with Gina really made me into a cad? Have I no sense of decency? Have I no sense of decency, at all, left? No, wait; that was McCarthy._ Upset, Newsie shook his head, then deliberately knocked it against the drywall of his newly-created dressing-room, a space about the size of a small walk-in closet built into one side of the reconstructed green room, below the mainstage level of the Muppet Theatre. _How can I take back what I said, what I did? Mother's never accepted an apology without some kind of punishment…_ He shuddered. Did ghosts have even worse means of punishing their unruly offspring at their disposal than live parents? He was certain he was close to finding out. Feeling sick, he dropped into the single chair in the tiny space. This room wasn't much longer or wider than the broom closet next to it, the space Newsie had previously claimed as a semi-private space to psych himself up for his almost-always-painful News Flash reports; the main advantage of having this new space was that he didn't have to share it with Beauregard's mops, buckets, and chemicals.

However, it seemed tonight he was unwittingly sharing it with someone else. "Hey, can ya keep the emo angst down, buddy? Some of us are trying to sleep," Rizzo complained from a hammock slung in a corner, just above eye-level to a Muppet. Surprised, Newsie looked up, then glowered as he saw who it was.

"Can't you read? The sign on the door says _News Flash Assignment Desk!_ That means serious journalists only, rodent!" the Newsman snapped.

Rizzo laughed. "Oh, puh-leeze! You couldn't even _fit_ a desk in here, and the only one who gets those assignments is you, Mr Rather-Not!"

"Sure, take a cheap shot at the second-stringer!" Newsie snarled, shooting to his feet again and stomping closer to the corner where Rizzo lounged. "This from the freeloader who plundered all my news director's cheese while calling himself her _assistant!_ The only thing you seem to have assisted with is the depletion of the larder!"

"How could I have depleted a larder? I have no idea what that even is! Sheesh, Newsgeek, you really could join the twenty-first century sometime," Rizzo protested, trying to turn over in the hammock to block out the light. "Ya know, learn a little modern lingo, give up the 'seventies coats for good, do a blog or something…"

He shrieked as Newsie reached up and gave the hammock a hard spin, winding up completely tangled inside the canvas nap-sack. "I am in _no mood_ to put up with your insults tonight on top of everything else!" Newsie yelled, trying to keep his voice from breaking. "Now – now get out!"

"Okay, geez," Rizzo grumbled, managing to poke his head out of the twisted hammock. He blinked at the sight of the Newsman slumping back upon his chair and worriedly clasping his hands together, gulping back a silent sob. "Hey…what's wrong?"

"Why – why would I tell _you_ anything? You'll just make fun of me," Newsie muttered.

Rizzo clambered from the hammock, swinging himself down the cross-braces of the half-finished interior walls to the floor, and coming closer to peer warily at the geek he'd once roomed with. "Oh, man. Did something happen with you and Gina?"

Newsie glanced suspiciously at the rat. "Not…not specifically, no."

"'Not specifically'? What da heck does _that_ mean? 'Not specifically' as in she hasn't thrown ya outta the house yet, or as in she _will_ throw ya out soon as she finds out what utterly brain-dead thing ya did?"

"I haven't done anything!" Newsie argued, then modified that guiltily: "Not…not to her."

"Okay," said Rizzo, looking him over. "Uh…did she break her necklace?"

"What? No!"

"Did _you_ break it? Is dat curse thing the both of ya have about to come alive again? Is – is all heck about to break loose around here?" Rizzo asked, nervously looking around as if expecting the closet to start closing in on him.

"The necklace is fine! No! It's…it's my mother," the Newsman said, choking up again.

"Ohhh…I get it. Your ma's sick and you're worried, dat it?"

"No!" Newsie glowered at the rodent. "My mother is dead, and she won't leave us alone!"

"Oh…kay," Rizzo said, eyes widening, whiskers twitching.

Suddenly feeling the urge to unburden himself, Newsie burst into rapid, gruff speech: "She doesn't like Gina, feels she's a bad influence on me, calls her names, says we're living in sin and won't leave me alone about it; I spent my whole _life_ doing what she wanted, taking care of her, trying to be moral and humble and _good_ for her, and I just lost my temper and _slapped_ her! I don't know…don't know what I was thinking…I'm a bad son…I'm horrible…" Newsie broke into sobs, hurriedly yanking out his handkerchief and burying the lower half of his long nose in it. "And now she's going to punish me and I know I deserve it!" he wailed, and his vision blurred in tears.

"Uh…huh," Rizzo gulped, opening the dressing-room door quickly and slipping out. Gonzo noticed him trotting away from the area as fast as his paws would take him, and blinked in surprise at him.

"Hey, Rizzo! What's going on?"

"Oh, man. The geek's completely gone all Norman Bates in there! Ya better lock up the kitchen knives! I'm not sticking around to see if he's got Wayne dressed in a wig and negligée in the fly loft!" Shaking his head, Rizzo scampered upstairs.

Concerned, Gonzo knocked gently on the narrow door next to the broom closet. The Newsman's rough-edged, angry voice shot out at him: "And I do _not_ need any advice from any thieving rodents!"

"Uh…okay," Gonzo said. After a second, the door opened a crack, and the Newsman peered out at him, his expression instantly changing to one of contrition when he saw who it was.

"Er. Uh…sorry, Gonzo. I thought you were Rizzo."

"Yeah…I get that a lot," Gonzo said agreeably. "I think it's the Hawaiian shirts. You okay?"

Newsie sighed, nervously adjusting his tie. "I'm fine. Thank you. I just, uh…I just have, er…have a lot of thinking to do. Is there a News Flash?"

"Not that I've heard. I'm sure Scooter will come get you if there is," Gonzo said, and Newsie nodded, starting to turn away. "Hey, if you need help, they say two heads are better than one!"

Newsie paused, then looked worriedly back at Gonzo. "Do you…can you think of any way I could make amends for an insult to my mother?"

Gonzo's eyes widened. "You insulted your mother? Gosh, no! Ah, I was thinking maybe _these_ guys could help," he offered, pointing out one of the guest monsters tonight, a violet-furred creature with two distinct heads, red noses and horns; one had a goatee.

"Muh?" one of the heads asked.

"Ther!" the other responded. Both of them looked expectantly at Newsie.

The Newsman slammed the door.

At the Sosilly, Gina began cursing under her breath when she received the news that their scheduled comedian had contracted some sort of weird flu and wouldn't be able to make it. "Green fur and clamshell lips? What the heck kind of virus is that?" Scott wondered aloud.

Gina shook her head, frustrated, skimming over the schedule of acts. "Who cares? All I know is that leaves us ten minutes short, and the ads specifically mention comedy!"

"You could always have Mumford stretch out his act even more," Scott suggested, but Gina threw him a glare.

"Please. It's about ten too long as it is! Where are we going to get another comedian on short notice?"

Alan spoke up, startling them both; they hadn't realized the boy was anywhere near the lighting booth. "Um…I met these guys upstate at summer stock, and went ahead and gave them a call," he said, looking at his tennis shoes. "They do comedy."

"Please don't tell me they're students," Gina muttered. "This is supposed to be a pros-only show!" Seeing the boy's face fall, Gina sighed. "Look, Alan. That's a great idea on paper, but unless they already have a name they're not going to be much of a draw, and the whole point of a charity show act is…"

"To bring in the donors, I get it," Alan said. He looked up at her. "They're pros! They've both worked with the Muppets already!"

"They're Muppets?" Gina reconsidered. "Well, okay…"

"Um…not exactly."

"They're what, monsters?" Gina hoped not; Newsie was anxious enough right now without being asked to be anywhere near his worst phobia.

"Uh, no, not monsters…" the boy said, giving her a puzzled look.

"Are they here?" Scott asked.

"Yeah! Hey guys, come on out, let 'em see you!" Alan said over his headset. All three of them turned toward the stage as two very small people trotted out and sat upon black velvet cubes down-center, close to the front row. Well, perhaps _people_ wasn't the right term…

"Good evening! It's great to be here! Isn't it great to be here, Topo?"

"Yah, yah, it sure is, Chucky Bear! Hey, doesn't this remind you of the show we did last time at the Hamptons?"

The odd-looking wooden bear swiveled his head around to take in the empty theatre seats. "Why's that, Sticky my friend?"

"'Cause the audience then was another bunch of dead seats!"

They laughed heartily. "No, seriously, it's great to be here, folks! What a great chance for us to show how much we care about the, uh…"

"The inner-city kids' youth groups, Chucky?"

"Oh! Is that what this is for? I thought we were speaking out against termites!"

Gina turned slowly around, staring first at Scott, then at Alan. The intern beamed at her, grasping his clipboard with the air of a publicist who'd just discovered a real moneymaker. "Alan," Gina said quietly.

"Aren't they great? They've offered me a position as their manager! It could be my show-biz break!" the student exclaimed.

"Alan. Your 'comedy act' is a badly-made bear doll with a monocle, and a…a…" Gina was at a loss, gesturing at the weird pair still cracking lame jokes to an empty theatre.

"A tongue depressor," Scott supplied, watching the wooden things onstage in rapt fascination.

"I know! Totally original, right? Do you think they could get into some of the clubs here after this?" Alan asked eagerly.

Gina sat down. She stared in silence at the inanimate objects ribbing one another in the center of a large, bare black stage. Finally she looked back at Alan. "Did you vet them through Paul?"

"Yeah! He _loves_ 'em!"

Gina looked at Scott. He shrugged. "Cold fish likes stiff, dead jokes," he rumbled. "Who knew?"

Disgusted, Gina penciled them in on the act schedule.

When Scooter knocked to tell the Newsman a bulletin had come in over the wire, he noticed their resident journalist looked pale and anxious. "Hey, you okay, Newsie?"

"Fine," Newsie muttered, taking the paper from the gofer-turned-assistant-stage-manager as they both hurried upstairs.

Scooter persisted. "You're not coming down with the green fur flu, are you? I hear it's been going around!" He peered closely at the Newsman, who backed away a step, nervously smoothing down his hair and tugging his coat-hem to get the wrinkles out.

"I'm not sick! I'm fine," Newsie said firmly, and Scooter shrugged.

"Look, if you feel like you're going to puke, try not to hit the audience, okay?" Scooter gave him a pat on the shoulder and hurried off, directing the stagepigs who were setting the last couple of cheeses in place onstage. Newsie blinked. Green fur flu? Cheese? He shook his head as Rizzo and a large group of rats scurried out before the curtain opened and the band struck up a jazzy number.

 _Why is it always something weird around here?_ Newsie wondered. However, that immediately brought to mind his mother's repeated scoldings about the sort of company he worked with. Glumly he stood offstage, waiting, while Rizzo broke into fervent, if off-key, singing:

"If dey could see me now,

Dat little gang of mine –

I'm eating fancy chow

And drinking fancy wine!"

The rat, dressed in a gold lamé top hat and tails-coat, danced merrily atop a giant stack of chunks and rounds of various kinds of cheese. Below him, a group of rats dressed, well…rattily…looked up and shook their heads in apparent disbelief, even as they moved to the music.

"I'd like dose stumblebums ta see for a fact

Da kinda top-drawer, first-rate mice I attract!"

Rizzo gestured behind him; a chorus of gray mice dressed as Rockettes began doing a swaying, coordinated dance step on the level of Swiss just below him. One of them fell into a large hole with an indignant squeak.

"All I can say is _wow-eeee!_

Looka where I am! Tonight I landed, pow!

Right in a pot of jam!"

Rizzo did a cannonball into a large bowl of blueberry jam, flipping himself right back out immediately and licking off his arm in one fluid move.

"Ah, what a setup! Holy cow!

Dey'd never believe it

If my friends could see me now!"

"We see ya, already," one of the rats below grumbled. "Quit hoggin' da jam!"

The Newsman watched, lost in his own unhappy musings. _I thought I had a great set-up! Living with Gina, in her wonderful apartment, doing…everything…with her…_ He blushed. _I thought it was paradise. What if Mother's right? What if I've only been dragging myself down in the world? It really is a good thing Aunt Ethel can't see me now; she would be truly shocked._ He could just hear his prim, gossipy aunt telling her friends how her nephew had moved in with some girl half his age… Wincing, Newsie tried to fight off the self-loathing creeping into his thoughts. _No! Mother's wrong! Gina is good for me, and I'm…I'm good for her! She's said so! She wouldn't be with me if that wasn't the case!_

Rizzo was joined onstage by Camilla, lolling extravagantly on a long fake-fur stole draped coquettishly over a rind of aged cheddar.

"If dey could see me now, my little dusty group,

Traipsin' round dis chicken coop!

I'd hear those thrift-shop rats say

Bruddah, get _her!_

Draped onna bedspread made from tree kinds a'fur!

All I can say is wow!

Wait 'til da riff and raff

See just exactly how we sign _dis_ autograph!"

Rizzo produced a pen as tall as he was to sign an oversized check with a flourish; Camilla, clucking happily, grabbed it in her beak and took off. Rizzo laughed.

"What a buildup! Holy cow!

Dey'd never believe it,

If my friends could see me now!"

He went into a wild dance, twirling with several of the mice in turn. Two more went spiralling out-of-control off the cheesepile with squeaks of outrage. "Rizzo, dang it!" "Watch it, you oaf!" "Hey, Tommy Tune you ain't!"

Newsie folded and unfolded the news bulletin, pacing tightly back and forth in the stage right wing. Yes, he'd gained all that: a decent salary (not the highest even in the local-news market, but far, far more than he'd ever made before), a fantastic apartment, a little fame earlier this year (though the questions about his experience with psychokinetic manifestational events had died down, he still had some nice articles and video files for his scrapbooks), and the love of a beautiful, smart, dedicated young woman…he'd made it. Personally as well as professionally. Did he still want a Pulitzer? Of course! But…he was happy. He'd _been_ happy, at least, until Mother had shown up.

What would happen if he couldn't persuade his mother to back off? Just how annoyed was Death at the old woman's harping? Newsie shuddered. Wasn't there anyone he could turn to for help? Clearly, Gina was expecting him to deal with it; he decided unhappily that was fair. After all, it was _his_ parent; her own grandmother, the only parent she'd known most of her life, had grudgingly approved the match…and the Gypsy woman had also been dead at the time! No, the only obstacle here was indeed _his_ problem, _his_ mother. The fact that she hadn't caught back up to him yet only frightened him the more; as a child, even as a younger man, he'd been relieved when her wrath turned on him immediately after whatever transgression she claimed he'd made. It was over faster, at least. No…the ones you had to watch out for with Mother were the slow, smoldering rages, the ones where she made you think she'd forgotten all about the issue for a day or two…and then _wham!_ You'd wake up to find all your term papers had been put through the shredder, or you'd walk down to the market and realize all the clerks were laughing at you behind your back and making cry-baby motions, or your prized souvenir Natty Bumpo action figure would've been suddenly missing, donated to Goodwill along with your entire Pat Boone album collection…

Gonzo joined Rizzo, dressed as a waiter, bringing a hefty platter of sliced cheeses, which Rizzo disdainfully waved off, though he snatched a glass of champagne from the tray.

"If dey could see me now,

Right here wit' Mr G,

Who's waitin' on me like he's a maitré-d!

I'd hear my buddies sayin'…"

The disgruntled rats, trying vainly to leap up to the next level of cheeses, sniped more than sang: "Crazy! What gives?"

"Dat bum's livin' like da other half lives!"

Rizzo gleefully danced around, hat raised in one paw, pointing at Gonzo as he re-entered and offered a silent toast with another champagne flute.

"Ta think da highest brow –

Which I gotta say is he –" Gonzo wiggled his eyelids at the audience, not having brows per se. "Should pick da lowest brow—

Which dere's no doubt is me!

What a setup! Holy cow!

Dey'd never believe it –

Oh if my friends! Could! See! Me!

Noooooooowwwww!"

Rizzo stepped down the cheese-stairs one by one as he delivered the last refrain, the remaining mice line-kicking as they followed. Unfortunately, at the last line, Rizzo came within reach of the other rats, and they grabbed him, then attacked the cheeses. Although the audience applauded as the curtain closed, Rizzo was suddenly in a fight for his cheese. "Hey! C'mon! You guys, it's just a _song!_ Hey dat's _my_ Limberger! Knock it off!"

The stagepigs quickly shoved the news desk out in front of the curtain, flying the backdrop of world time zones down before opening the main drapes again. Newsie couldn't get onstage fast enough, desperate to focus on something beside his own troubles. "Here is a Muppet News Flash!" he yelled, rushing to the desk. "A Muppet has just been named the winner of this season's competition on the popular reality show, _America's Got Lots of People with Kind of an Unusual Gimmick Which They Want to Share with the World!_ Ahem…little Carrie Louise, age eight, took her singing duet with Mr Turtle all the way to the finals, after having previously sung with a large bullfrog. Although she didn't even make the auditions on the Muppet Show with that act, Carrie Louise persevered, and by switching amphibious partners, seems to have finally garnered the attention she so _desperately_ wanted!" Seeing the note at the bottom of the sheet indicating he should go to a live interview, the Newsman turned around to face the viewscreen built into the backdrop. He hadn't done one of these in a while…not live, at least. Not having Rhonda here to edit made him a little nervous, but he gamely addressed the screen as the live feed flickered on: "Tell us, Carrie Louise, what factor made the difference in your act?"

A small Muppet girl with yellow hair popped into view, smiling brightly. "Hi! Am I really live on the news?"

"Yes, you are! Miss Louise, what was it like going up before those tough celebrity judges on national television?"

"Oh, this is so great! _Hi mom!"_ the little girl shouted, waving.

A voice somewhere off-camera grumbled, "You've gained the fifteen minutes of fame you so atrociously lusted after, and all you can say is 'Hi mom'? Heavens, where's Drella when you need him?"

"Can you get me a spot on Barbara Walters?" Carrie Louise asked Newsie.

"What? Er…no, I'm sorry. But tell us, Miss Louise, what made you decide to resume your unsuccessful singing act with a talking turtle?" Newsie was winging it at this point, nettled that celebrities didn't seem to want to be interviewed by him. Not even temporary, questionably quasi-celebrities… Another question occurred to him as the Muppet girl continued to wave happily at the screen as though she were in a Little Miss Safeway competition instead of a televised talent show. "Er…where _is_ your singing partner, anyway?"

The same grouchy (though very cultured) voice sounded again from somewhere lower than the mic Carrie Louise held. "In a position of complete ignominy! Get _off_ me, you little song-who—"

The feed suddenly crackled and shifted. "Uh…we seem to be having technical issues," Newsie said uneasily. "Miss Louise? Mr Turtle? Can you hear me?"

"I hear you just fine, Aloysius!"

"Yeeek!" Newsie cringed. The glowering visage of Mrs Crimp filled the screen, gray and smoldering. He could see wisps of smoke coming out of her ears, and her eyes were nothing more than glowing pinpricks behind those tiny round granny specs.

"You want a news flash? Here's a news flash!" Mrs Crimp snarled. "My son is changing his name from Aloysius Ambrosius to Benedict Quisling to show his new status as a guilty little _traitor!_ In just the past twenty-four hours, he has engaged in _immoral_ and probably _illegal_ carnal acts, _smeared_ the formerly good name of his family in _filth,_ and _abused his own mother!"_

"Aagh!" Newsie stumbled back, shoving the desk off-kilter, his hands automatically rising to defend himself from the terrible spectre looming on the screen. As he retreated, she began pulling herself _through_ the screen, seeming to grown bigger and more dangerous than she ever was in life…a truly frightening apparition as far as the Newsman was concerned. "Mother, I'm sorry!"

"You most certainly are!" she snapped. The audience murmured, looking at one another, unsure if this was part of the show. Offstage, Kermit and Scooter shuddered, surprised and dismayed at the ghost who looked uncomfortably like a female, older, dusty-gray version of the Newsman. She advanced upon her cringing son relentlessly. "This! _This_ is what comes of bad little boys who ignore their mothers' advice and reject _all_ standards of common decency by falling into bed with Muppet-corrupting little tramps! What's next, running for a Senate seat?" she shrieked.

 _"_ _Aaaaggh!"_ Newsie fled, tripping over the curtains on his way into the wing, recovering fast and pounding past the other Muppets, slamming the back door open so hard it immediately slammed back in his face. He staggered; then, whimpering, shoved the door open again and ran. Scooter, hurrying after him, saw him fall down the loading-dock steps. He never paused, picking himself up and running as fast as he could go down the alley.

Scooter hastened back to Kermit, staring out at the stage. The apparition glared at them, scowled at the audience, and vanished. "Yeesh," Kermit said. "What...what the heck was that all about?"

Scooter shook his head, baffled. "Heck if I know, but I don't think we'll see the Newsman again tonight!" He sniffed, and frowned. "Weird. Is that lemon dusting spray?"

Kermit simply gestured at the stagepigs to change the scenery, setting up the fake caravan and campfire for the musical number Piggy had asked to do. "As long as whoever-she-was is gone and we can get on with the show…" Kermit sighed. He tried to smile as Piggy air-kissed him, sweeping past to command the stage in a fluttering silk shawl and a skirt embroidered with a trim of jingling gold coins.

Scooter watched a moment to see that the number was beginning smoothly, with Piggy walking slowly among numerous pigs dressed in colorful scarves and playing violins and shakers. Her voice, low and melodic, carried throughout the dim house: _"Moi_ was born in the wagon of a traveling show…"

Kermit nodded, watching his girl sway and sing and do an expert twirl with her arms above her head provocatively when the music launched into the loud refrain, with flutes and drums added to the mix: "Gypsies, tramps and thieves! We'd hear it from the people of the town…They called us Gypsies, tramps and thieves…"

Scooter tapped his boss' shoulder. "Hey, chief? Did Miss Piggy base her costume on Gina's usual outfits?"

Kermit shook his head, smiling. "Uh…no. I doubt this is derived from Gina's wardrobe...or Cher's. It, uh…it suits her figure, though."

"Uh, yeah." Scooter thought of something, and glanced back at the closed rear exit. "Good thing the Newsman's gone. Rizzo told me he was complaining earlier that his mother won't leave him alone about Gina! Apparently she doesn't approve, and I doubt this song would help his mood much…" The same thought struck Scooter and Kermit simultaneously. They stared at one another. "Uh, you don't think…?"

"She _did_ look a lot like him," Kermit said. Both of them shivered. "I'm kind of glad now she never came down to the theatre before!"

"Uh…Rizzo also said that Newsie said his mother was _dead!"_

"Oh, good grief! Isn't one ghost around here enough already?" Kermit complained. "Uh, no offense, Uncle Deadly!"

The phantom dragon waved his hand in gracious dismissal. "Not to worry, little frog! I know full well you finally revere me as the dramatic genius I always was, and my home shall always be here!"

"Melodramatic genius, anyway," Floyd muttered under the Gypsy-pig music as he sauntered past, heading down for a quick cup of java before the band was needed back in the orchestra pit.

Slinking away from the usual backstage banter, Uncle Deadly mused upon what he'd just seen. This theatre was _his_ territory, for heaven's sake! His and his lady-love's, at least…and he didn't wish to share it with _any_ other spooks. _Especially not ones that raggedy-looking. She could have put on a little corpse-rouge, at least!_ he thought, irritated. So that was the deceased _mater_ of the unlucky reporter? Why on earth was she haunting him? And what was all this about Gypsies? _Perhaps,_ thought the departed master of the golden boards, _perhaps I should look into this matter…particularly if that homely creature intends to haunt MY theatre!_ He was in no position to ask a favor of the reaper, even a favor of information…but there were other avenues to explore. He could always put a question out on the deadvine and see what crawled up…

Nodding to himself, Deadly crept into the shadows; the show went on behind him.


	7. Chapter 7

Gina stood a moment, taking a breath, as the door closed quietly behind her. _What a rehearsal. I will never, never do a show under Paul Grouper again! The man's an idiot!_ In addition to the random lineup of acts the producer had insisted on or booked himself, Gina had spent the last half-hour arguing with him over the programs. Boxes of them had arrived this evening and were currently piled in the ticket booth to the Sosilly, which was fine; the issue was not whether they had them, but what was to be done with them. Paul was loudly proclaiming they would be sold for two dollars each to the show attendees, "so we can rake in even more money – er, for the charity!" Gina had fruitlessly argued in favor of giving one out free to every ticketholder, pointing out it was just a show, not a stadium concert. As the matter stood, she envisoned a full recycling dumpster out back this coming Sunday after the last performance. _Idiot._

Sighing, she frowned, noting the apartment was blazing with light; every single lamp seemed to be on, from the aquarium light to the dining room's small, hand-wrought iron chandelier. "Newsie?" she called. When no reply sounded, she set down her purse and keys and looked around. Oddly, she couldn't find him anywhere. _But his keys are here. What the heck?_ "Newsie? Where are you?"

A muffled voice came from one of the storage drawers beneath the bed. Startled, Gina pulled open the drawer. The Newsman cringed, blinking fearfully up at her, wedged absurdly into the compartment next to her winter tights. "What are you doing?" Gina demanded.

"Is she gone?" Newsie whispered, darting frightened glances all around.

"Okay. I've had _enough_ of this!"

Newsie struggled to climb out of the drawer as his beloved stormed through the apartment to the kitchen. He hurried after her. "Gina? Gina, wait!"

"That witch is _not_ welcome here! I am taking care of _that_ part of it, at least, right here and now!" Gina growled, unlocking the latch to her Grandmama Angie's thick tome of special remedies, herbal and otherwise, which always lay on the marble prep counter in the kitchen. Catching up, the Newsman watched in growing concern while Gina let her hair down, shook it out angrily, and flipped through the pages of the book with a hard look on her face.

"What…what are you going to do?" he asked timidly.

"I'm going to banish her from this apartment. If I'm not allowed to send her back to the underworld, at least I can keep her out of my personal space!" Finding the right page, Gina scanned it a moment, then began yanking open drawers and cupboards.

"Gina, wait…Gina…I did something…something awful…" Newsie tried to confess, touching her arm. To his dismay, she shrugged him off.

"Not now, Newsie. This is _way_ past due." With a grimace that wrinkled her usually-cute nose, Gina laid out some evil-smelling dried whole herbs, a mortar and pestle, and a small, smoothly-carved stone bowl. Quickly she crushed the herb in the mortar, releasing a green, dank, swampy sort of scent. Newsie put his hands over his sensitive nose, stepping back.

"What is that stuff?" he asked. Gina glanced at him only a moment, focused on crushing all of the weed.

"Hemlock. Get me out a couple of lumps of charcoal from that cabinet, would you?"

Confused, Newsie did as she asked. "Are we having barbeque?"

Gina paused, looking at him. He stared up at her. With a sigh, she stroked his cheek once, took the charcoal pieces, and resumed her preparations. "Newsie…let me do this first, okay? We'll be able to talk privately in a few minutes."

"Privately?" Newsie began to choke, fear rising in his stomach again.

 _"_ _Aloysius!_ What is that evil little heathen doing?"

"Erk!" The Newsman backed against the kitchen wall, arms spread along it, finding nothing to protect himself with. His mother shoved one pointy-nailed hand toward him accusingly.

"And now witchcraft! Heathen! I raised you to be better than this!"

Gina stepped between them, waving the curling smoke from the stone bowl at the ghost; she'd lit the charcoal and sprinkled some of the crushed herb over the fiery coals. "This is simple incense, you horrible old hag! No different from what my people have done for centuries, from India all through Europe! And it has nothing to do with witchery, just simple chemistry: spirits don't like certain smells!" Gina advanced, forcing Mrs Crimp to back away. "Now if you want the spiritual part, try this! _I call upon Saint Michael, drive away this dead thing! I call on Saint Sarah, protect my hearth!"_ Still flattened against the wall, Newsie watched in shock as his mother's ghost retreated, spitting like a wild bobcat before the advancing, foul-smelling smoke. He coughed, trying to breathe only through his mouth, baffled; Gina was speaking in Romany, he knew, but since he only caught a couple of words here and there he had no idea what terrible insults she might be spewing upon his mother.

"Aloysius! Stop her! It _hurts!"_ Mrs Crimp wailed, beckoning to her son.

Gina paused, and angrily shot over her shoulder at Newsie: "She's lying! Ghosts can't feel pain, Newsie! Don't listen to her!"

"But…" Torn, the Newsman followed the strange procession of two out into the living room. Gina continued to sprinkle the herb over the coals, keeping up a steady trickle of smoke, waving the stuff around the doorframes of the kitchen, the dining room, and the front door, and into every corner high and low.

 _"_ _I call on all the angels, throw this mamioro back to her bones!"_ Now that one Newsie recognized, and shuddered, staring wide-eyed at his mother: Gina had told him some of the ghost stories her grandmother had told her, and many of them involved a _mamioro,_ a malevolent spirit or ghost. His mother snarled like a wild thing, seeking some way past Gina, but the Gypsy girl shoved the smoke in the ghost's face every time she tried to swoop around or over her. At the moment, his mother really did seem horrible, terrifying! He ducked when Mrs Crimp tried to slip past Gina again as she was forced back to the living-room windows.

"Aloysius! Make her stop! How can you hate me so much? I'm your _mother!"_ Mrs Crimp howled. Newsie froze, his automatic response to come to her aid countered by the hideous, crumpled expression on the gray face and the fiercely glowing eyes.

"Don't listen to her, Newsie!" Gina yelled, and threw open one of the windows. _"Out! Out, pale wretch! Go and shriek at the crossroads! Come not again into this home!"_

Wailing piteously, the spectre flew out the window. She cried as she went: "Aloysius! I won't forget this! Do you hear me? _Alooooysiuuuuusss!"_

Gina slammed and locked the window, waving the foul-scented incense around the sill and the jamb, then moving on to the hallway, apparently determined to coat every inch of the walls and doors and windows with the smoke. The Newsman saw Mrs Crimp flying – actually _flying –_ outside the ninth-floor windows, darting over to the bedroom, finding herself repulsed there as well, then coming back to stare balefully in at him. He could see her mouth moving, but the glass was thick enough to keep most noise out, and the angry, grating voice of his mother proved to be not strong enough to penetrate the sound defenses. Shivering, he stood there, numb and staring, jumping six inches off the carpet when Gina's hand touched his shoulder. "Aaagh!"

"Newsie! Newsie, calm down. It's done. It's done now." Gina pulled him into her arms for a tight embrace, turning him away from the uncurtained windows. "Shhh. It's okay. You're safe. It's all done. She can't get in again. You're safe."

"What – what did you do to her?" Worried, he began to turn, but Gina crouched, taking his head in her hands, making him look at her instead.

"Nothing. She's fine. She just can't come in. That's all." He looked so fearfully at her that Gina sighed, and kissed him.

"She's…she's not hurt?"

"Oh, Newsie." She sighed again, stroking her Muppet journalist's soft auburn hair. "No. I don't know of anything that actually could hurt a spirit. All I did was evict her, okay?" She locked his gaze until he gulped and nodded. "I'm sorry. I really am. But you and I both deserve privacy in our own home, don't you think? She won't bother us in here again."

A thump came from the window, making them both jump slightly. Gina frowned. "At least, she can't come _in_ again! Come on. Don't look over there. Come into the kitchen with me." Taking his hand, she led the shaking Newsman into the warm-hued kitchen and coaxed him to sit at the café table in one corner.

Newsie huddled in his chair, his nose still bothered by the strong smell lingering everywhere. Gina started the kettle and set out their pottery mugs, preparing something herbal and less offensive-smelling, keeping a watchful eye on him. "I think we both need a night away from the craziness, okay? Now…what was it you wanted to tell me?"

"I…I hit her," Newsie mumbled, staring at the table.

Gina sat down next to him, taking his hands in her own, noting how much his fingers trembled. "You did what?"

"I hit my mother," he gulped, meeting her eyes finally, his own beginning to feel wet. "I lost my temper…I've never…never done that! Never! But I…I don't know…she wouldn't stop calling you…awful things, and I…I just…"

"You hauled off and slapped her," Gina guessed, knowing her Newsie was not by nature a violent Muppet. She stroked his fingers softly. "Newsie…how many times did she do that to you?"

His head jerked up so fast she knew she'd struck home. "I…she…I deserved it!"

 _"_ _No,"_ Gina said firmly, squeezing his soft, broad hands. "Nobody deserves to be abused! And I _very_ much doubt you did anything bad!"

Newsie broke into sobs, ashamed. Gina didn't say anything for a long moment; then she simply leaned over and put her head against his, holding his hands tightly. He curled his fingers around hers, feeling small and foolish and very much needing her touch. "She…she always said I was her burden," he said, getting his voice under control. "She had to raise me all by herself…I know she tried…sacrificed so much…"

Gina let him babble on like that for a minute. Then she sighed, lifted his chin so he met her eyes, and said quietly, "Bullshit."

"Wha-ha?"

She repeated the word firmly. "Newsie…I love you. But you have got to stop living by her standards. She may very well have been hard-put to raise a child alone; I don't know. But I _do_ know _you,_ and there is simply no way on earth you were as awful as she makes you think you were!"

He could only stare at her. From the living room, a couple more thumps on the glass told them Mrs Crimp hadn't left. Newsie shivered. Gina continued, "Stop letting her control how you think, how you act! Do _you_ think what we've done is wrong? Do you?" The kettle whistled, startling Newsie; Gina rose to pour the water for tea. She studied his expression as she did so.

"I…uh…I don't…I mean…" he stammered. She returned to the table, glaring at him.

"You'd better consider what you say here _really_ carefully, because if _you_ think I've done to you half the things she's accusing me of, you and I don't need to be together any more!"

Stunned, Newsie stared up at her. He had to swallow twice before he found his voice again. "Gina! I don't…no! No, I…"

"Good." She leaned over and caught his open mouth in a deep kiss. When she released him, he blinked back more tears, ashamed of showing so much weakness, but she smiled tiredly at him. "Because if you think me loving you, or you loving me, is a bad thing, then…" Newsie reached up, pulling her lips down to his again, silencing her a long moment. Then he simply held onto her, taking deep breaths, eyes shut. She hugged him in return. He felt her sigh. "Let me get the tisane. We both need it, I think."

He nodded, and she moved to the far counter to strain out the herbs from the steaming liquid in both mugs, stirring a little honey into them. When she set one mug before him, Newsie recognized the blend of mugwort, chamomile and jasmine she favored for calming jangled nerves. For once, he sipped it gratefully, the oddly floral taste promising a quieting of the jittery blood rushing through him still. Gina swept her hair out of her eyes, sitting down once more. "So. Are you hungry at all?"

He shrugged, doing his best to pretend it was a normal night. "Maybe…maybe a little."

"Yeah. Me too. How about sandwiches?"

"Sure." He winced when another thump came from the living room.

Gina scowled, getting up again. "You stay here. I'll be right back."

"What are you going to do?" he asked immediately, worried.

"Nothing harmful. Relax. Drink your mugwort."

Newsie fidgeted at the kitchen table, surprised when he heard a lush, low voice begin singing, backed up by a slow jazz combo: "It was written in the stars, that what's written in the stars, shall be…" After another minute, Gina returned to the room and sat back down as if nothing had happened.

"Er…who's singing?"

"Ella Fitzgerald. Thought it would block the noise but still be soft enough for your ears." Gina smiled at him; Newsie nodded, listening. "Now…what kind of sandwich do you want?"

"Uh…whatever you're having is fine," he replied, feeling guilty when Gina slowly rose and opened the 'fridge to rummage through it. "Do you want any help?"

She straightened up, smiling at him softly. "What's the lousy-night rule?"

"Er…the one who has a lousy night is exempt from chores."

"Right. So I'm invoking it. Drink your tea."

A minute later, Gina started; Newsie's arms closed around her waist, and she felt him lay his head against the small of her back. She paused in her dinner preparations, touching his hands. "What's that for?"

"I love you," he murmured against her shirt.

Relaxing, she looked behind her to see him hugging her, eyes closed, looking deeply weary, his glasses off. A really loud _thump_ sounded over the music, and she felt him jerk, startled, then hold her more tightly. She reached around to stroke his hair. "I love you too," she replied, and finished fixing turkey-bacon BLTs for them both while he hung onto her.

She swayed a little to the tune playing in the next room, "Love Is Here to Stay," and Newsie shuffled along with her, not letting go.

"You, rat!"

"Ack!" Rizzo leaped straight up, landing hard and whirling to see the ghostly dragon peering at him from a shadowy corner of the otherwise deserted green room. Everyone else had gone home for the night, leaving the Muppet Theatre in the temporary possession of the bugs, the rats…and the resident spectre. "Geez, don't _do_ that!" Rizzo exclaimed, one paw over his heart. "My doc says I gotta jumpy heart! Scarin' ain't good for it!"

"Perhaps cutting down on the cholesterol-laden dairy foods would be a bigger help," Uncle Deadly suggested, creeping into the dim light of the open room.

"Dat's rich, comin' from the dead guy," Rizzo grumbled. "Whaddaya want?"

"I understand you spoke with our special correspondent earlier about his familial woes," Deadly said, gesturing at the tiny dressing-room by the broom closet.

"Our special _what?..._ Oh. The geek. Yeah, he was going off about some weird stuff with his mother. Real creepy. Ya know, I really think he's gonna totally snap one'a these days," Rizzo said, shrugging.

Deadly glided closer, making the rat nervous. Dead or not, he still qualified as a monster as far as Rizzo was concerned, and monsters around here had a bad habit of scarfing up rats for snacks. "Did he say _why_ she is haunting him?"

"Uh…something about her not liking Gina. His girl," Rizzo explained, edging away, but the dragon seemed lost in thought.

"Hmmm. So she still thinks she needs to look after him? What an unfortunate duty for them both!" Deadly stared at the closed door marked _News Flash Assignment Desk_ a long while, finally turning back to Rizzo just as the rat was about to slip away. "Why did he label that absurd little closet 'assignment desk' when he can't even fit a desk into it?"

"Dunno," Rizzo said. "Heh, heh…he's always had some kinda self-importance issues, I think. Rhonda says all anchors have that. It's like a special gland in their brains that turns on when they think someone's paying attention to 'em."

"Hmmm." The dragon stroked his wispy beard thoughtfully. "What precisely does the late Mrs Newsperson dislike about his paramour?"

"I dunno! She always seemed nice to me…Gina, I mean. Haven't met Newsie's ma, and don't think I want to. I, uh, I don't talk to dead things! Uh…no offense!"

Uncle Deadly turned slowly, his eyes glowing. Rizzo squeaked like a girl and took off, making the dragon chuckle loudly, his mirth building up to a hideous _mwah! Ha! Ha! Ha!_ Abruptly, he fell silent, shaking his head. "Fool!" Sighing, the spectre slowly paced the length of the abandoned green room. Most ghosts returned to earth because they felt they had unfinished buisness, he well knew; he himself felt an obligation to this theatre, to this troupe: keeping them safe had been a priority of his for years now, and that meant safe from otherworldly entities as well as petty thieves and greedy would-be developers. He much misliked this new intrusion, even if it only affected one member of the Muppets thus far. If thwarted, who knew how far the new revenant might go to achieve what she believed to be her mission? Frowning, Deadly considered the empty news room, such as it was, as though some answer might be found there.

He slipped silently upstairs to the stage, his keen eyes seeking the inhabitants most people had no idea lived in the high rafters above the theatre's grid. Sure enough, one little bat, not yet flown out for the night, was testing its tiny wings high above, snapping up the few moths hovering around the single, so-called "ghost light" which illuminated the stage faintly every night. Deadly called to it, and the bat swooped down, alighting on his outstretched finger, swinging loosely upside-down to stare at him.

"Go forth," he told the little flyer, and held out the spare necktie he'd found in the Newsman's dressing-room for the bat to sniff. "Find him. If the ghost who looks like him is there, bring her to me! Summon her! I demand audience with the intruder; tell her so!" With a squeak, the bat fluttered up and out, finding the hole in the roof ventilation Deadly had insisted be part of the remodeling of the theatre a few months back. He watched it go, nodding in satisfaction. Perhaps a frank discussion of the matter, ghost-to-ghost, would produce some useful results. Whatever the gray lady's reasons for being here, he, the one true Phantom of the Muppet Theatre, would brook no more such arrogant invasions as had happened tonight!

Grimly, Deadly vanished back into the deep shadows of the stage wing.

Newsie tried his hardest to ignore the steady pounding on the living room windows while he and Gina ate a simple supper in the kitchen. Even with the soft music playing, it proved very difficult. When they retired to the bedroom for the night, he glimpsed his mother's anguished face outside the living room window, and paused at the doorway to the short hall, feeling guilty. She looked so lonely out there…

Gina put her hand on his shoulder, nudging him toward the bedroom. "Newsie, I told you. Don't even look."

He did as he was told, but still the awful feelings returned. "Do you…do you think she's cold?" he ventured while Gina undressed.

She stopped, clad in shorts and her sports bra, and gave him an incredulous look. "It is ninety degrees out there! And ghosts don't get cold!"

"How do you know?" he shot back, ashamed of his own negligence. "Have you ever been a ghost? She looks cold, and lonely, and…and…"

"Oh, I do _not_ believe this," Gina groaned, tossing her shirt into the laundry hamper hard enough to make the wicker basket rock slightly.

Newsie stared at the floor, upset. "Now you sound like that dratted shrimp," he muttered.

Gina glared at him. "That is _it._ If you want to feel sorry for the abusive woman who spent your entire time with her sending you on guilt-trips, you do it without me! Heck, _worse_ than guilt trips! I think those were full-blown guilt _expeditions!"_

She strode across the hall to the bathroom. Newsie followed quickly, apologizing: "Gina! No, er…look…I'm sorry!"

The door slammed in his face. "She's a ghost, Newsie! A bad one! _Stop_ paying attention to her!" Gina yelled from inside.

"But…" Sighing, he fell silent. After a moment he crept down the hall once more, peering cautiously around the corner; as soon as Mrs Crimp spotted him, she resumed banging on the window with one fist, making plaintive faces at him, gesturing and apparently beseeching, although he couldn't hear whatever she was saying. He ducked back into the hall, afraid, ashamed. She _had_ appeared truly fearsome earlier…but she was his mother. His flesh and blood, and she had, in fact, made sure he had oatmeal every morning, made sure he washed behind his ears and had clean shorts on, driven him relentlessly to get better grades in school, to be a responsible person, to be honest and loyal and…and… He started sniffling. _Loyal._ Yes, she'd punished him many, many times, sometimes mildly, sometimes painfully, but she'd always insisted it was for his own good, to impress upon him the right and good way to live. And she had, often, sacrificed something she desired in order to provide for him, be it her time, her money, or her attention – she'd often told him so, in very clear terms, just how much she'd given up for him, her son, her burden and obligation. How could he turn his back on that?

Gina stopped in the hall, waiting until he noticed her. "Bathroom's all yours," she said curtly, and went into the bedroom, clothed now in a long black satin nightshirt. When he glumly opened the dresser drawers for something to wear to bed, she looked at him darkly once, then threw back the covers and jumped in, immediately pulling the sheet up and turning away from him as she settled in. Newsie hesitated, about to grab his now-habitual shorts and t-shirt. Another round of thumping sounded, this time from the bedroom window (thankfully curtained), startling him. "Oh for..." Gina let out a long curse, making Newsie wince. He abandoned all thought of immodest sleepwear, instead pulling out one set of his pajamas, and retreated to the bathroom.

This was horrible. Yes, he loved Gina – she was amazing, she was wonderful – but every admonition against immoral dress or speech or behavior ran through his mind, everything his mother had hammered into him for decades, and with a deep sense of having transgressed terribly, Newsie washed up and rinsed his mouth out and put on his long-sleeved, long-legged pajamas, a brown plaid pair, in fact, which his mother had given him for his birthday years ago. She always gave him useful things, not frivolous ones: socks or shorts or ties, sometimes PJs or shirts. Pencils. Pocket protectors. Guiltily he smoothed down the fabric over himself, then slowly returned to the bedroom.

Gina was scowling at the window, where the pounding persisted. "She shouldn't even be able to touch that!" Gina protested. "Not if there's nothing left holding her…" Suddenly she swung around to look at Newsie; he froze a few steps into the room, startled by the intensity of her glare. "Newsie…do you have anything of hers? Anything that belonged to her?"

"Uh…er…no," he replied, taken aback. His mother had willed all her belongings to her sister Ethel. Gina stepped out of bed, coming closer to study him.

"What about gifts? Things she gave to you? Anything like that?" Her gaze narrowed. "Your books?"

"What? No," he said, baffled. He'd bought all his books himself, through the years, with allowance at first and later, when he had employment, with what he could spare from his food money; his mother had thought owning books was useless when you could read them for free at the library, and had ridiculed every such purchase. "She…she believed in, er, practical gifts. She usually bought me…"

"Clothes," Gina said, sounding disgusted. "Of course. Do you have any of them still?"

"Uh, a couple of ties; one of the sports coats; some of the shorts, I think..." He stared at her in complete confusion as she began opening his dresser drawers and the closet and pulling out his clothes pell-mell. "Gina?"

"Which ones? Show me!"

"Why?"

Exasperated, she explained, "When a Gypsy dies, all of their belongings are burned or given away to someone outside the community. The spirits can still be attached to the items, and follow around the family if any of them are foolish enough to hang onto something." She saw him glance at her grandmother's shawl, and snapped, "Yeah, I kept that! But I didn't _mind_ having her around once in a while, and she certainly didn't plague me like a freakin' poltergeist! Now show me! Which clothes did she give to you?"

The Newsman racked his memory, pointing out to Gina the few items he still owned which he knew his mother had given him; they were in most cases indistinguishable from the rest of his wardrobe in style, save for the newer things he'd bought himself since he and Gina had begun dating. To his shock, she gathered them up and carried them into the hallway outside the apartment. He hurried after her, protesting: "What are you doing? Gina! Those are my _clothes!_ Gina!" But she hurled them down the incinerator shaft, dusted off her hands, and with another grimace at him, stomped back into the apartment and shut the door tightly.

"There. Anything else?" she demanded.

"Wha…I can't believe you just…"

"Anything _else,_ Newsie? Come on! This has to be done!"

Reluctantly he indicated the pajamas he was wearing. His eyes widened as she reached for him. "Gina! Wait!"

But in seconds she'd expertly stripped him; he huddled, ashamed, behind the bedroom door, hearing her leave the apartment again, the creaking sound of the garbage-incinerator shaft being opened and shut once more, and the slam of their door as she returned. "There," Gina said, heading for the bed. "Come on. Climb in here."

"But…but…" he gulped. "I can't…I can't…like this! Can you, uh, throw me a pair of shorts, at least?"

She gave him an amazed look, shaking her head. "Newsie, we've been sleeping in the same bed for how many months now? I _have_ seen all you've got, you know!" She sighed, seeing his terrified expression, turning gentle. "And I like what I've seen. Very much. Now please…come to bed, my modest journalist."

"Turn out the lights?"

"Okay, okay…" She shut off the lamp and the bedside light. Reluctantly, the Newsman crept into the bed, pulling the covers up high and sinking down into them. "Hey. Do you hear that?"

"What?" he mumbled. Both of them were silent a moment.

"No banging. It worked. She can't touch us in here now. Not even to act like a nasty poltergeist." Satisfied, Gina tried to curl up with Newsie as she usually did, but he pulled away from her. "Newsie? You're safe, you know."

"I…I know." How could he tell her how horrible he felt? Laying here, without a stitch on, while his mother was probably hovering outside somewhere, thwarted and frustrated and convinced he was behaving immorally… Newsie huddled beneath the sheet, miserable. Rationally, he _knew_ he was being ridiculous; Gina loved him, he knew that. They'd enjoyed many lovely nights here, and many mornings and afternoons as well… He could feel a deep blush overtaking his felt. He'd ceased to be frightened of such intimacy, over the time he'd spent in Gina's arms; why then, now again, did he feel ashamed of being here? He felt her try to touch him again, and almost groaned, terribly guilty, shifting closer to the edge of the bed, away from her.

"She was wrong, Newsie," Gina said, her voice low and angry. "You want to sleep way over there tonight, fine. You do what you have to do. But so will I, if you make me. Think about that. I love you, and I'll always fight for you. But maybe it's time you did some fighting for yourself." She leaned close to him, and said softly in his ear, "The dead do not have the right to control the living. Stand up to her! Be your own Muppet for a change! _Stop_ living for _her_ happiness, and think about what _you_ want!"

Wordless, he blinked at her, the soft light from the small nightlight by the door just enough for him to see the gleam of her gray eyes. Was she crying? He wasn't sure. She startled him by kissing his nose. "I love you," she murmured. "But you need to choose."

He didn't know what response to make. Gina turned away, moving to the far side of the bed, curling up facing the wall instead of him. Newsie lay still, his chest tight, his stomach starting to hurt. He thought of his mother, probably still floating outside, waiting for him. He had no idea how to defuse her. He had no clue how to make up for slapping her, whether it had caused physical pain or not. And he was at a loss as to how to make her accept the one woman who actually loved him, and had proven she did time and again. "I…I love you too," he whispered across the bed, but if she heard him, Gina gave no sign. Depressed, he lay quietly, staring up at the dark ceiling, surrounded by a crushing blackness in the now-silent apartment.

Outside, Mrs Crimp brushed away the insistent little flying rodent trying to get her attention. "Nasty thing! Get away from me!" she snarled, slapping at it. The bat dodged, then swooped back, chittering at her; to her surprise, she understood it. "What? Who says?" It squeaked, fluttering near her, just out of reach. Mrs Crimp snorted. "Well! The nerve! I don't _think_ so!" She waggled a finger at the bat. "You just go back and tell that ugly monster that Aloysius is _my son,_ and I will keep trying to show him how far he's fallen until he sees it himself, and gives up that tawdry little tart! Who knows what sort of disgusting, shocking, horrible things she's subjecting him to in there, even now? Ugh!"

The bat tried once more, repeating its message, but the prim gray Muppet would have no truck with it. "I most certainly will _not_ go talk to that weird _thing!_ I've had quite enough of my son's freakish little friends, thank you! You tell your master I will do what I need to do, and go where I need to go, in order to turn my boy around – and if that means I go through his awful workplace, so be it! Now scram!" She swung at the bat, and it darted off, giving up.

Disgusted, Mrs Crimp turned back to the window, annoyed at whatever the little witch inside had done to prevent her even touching the building. _Well! I guess I'll just have to see about you, missy! You'll slip up, and I'll be right there to see it!_ A better idea chanced into her dusty gray hairbun, and she smiled. _Better yet, I'll make sure Aloysius sees it – sees just how wanton and immoral you REALLY are! THEN he'll give you up, and maybe even come with me! I could use him to rub my feet again…all that endless tromping about the underworld does wear on a body._ Nodding to herself, she waited for daylight, and the exodus from the building which would have to happen at some point. She'd be waiting…and when that awful female who'd ensnared her boy made her next mistake, she'd catch her, and make sure her son finally saw her for the tramp she was.

Whatever that took.


	8. Chapter 8

The Newsman stared up at the ceiling for some minutes before it occurred to him he was actually awake. Awake again, more accurately; he'd slept only fitfully, unhappy at not having Gina's arms around him, but worried about his mother no doubt lurking outside all night. He knew Gina hadn't slept peacefully either; several times he'd heard her murmuring as she dreamed of unpleasant things, and almost reached out to her. Each time, he hesitated, and then the image of Mrs Crimp's glower, even more pronounced than his own, would flash through his brain like news footage of a trainwreck or a combat zone, and he'd flinch. But Gina would then toss and turn, and make small unhappy noises in her sleep before subsiding into quietude once again.

He turned his head, able to see even without his glasses that she was still asleep, her hair tangled over the pillow, her arms drawn protectively up near her face although very little sunlight came through the closed curtains and linen shades to disturb her. Guiltily, Newsie slipped out of bed, quickly locating a fresh pair of boxers and his knee-length brown plaid robe and covering himself with hurried movements. With his glasses on, he looked at his sleeping love once more, knowing he was at least in part responsible for her bad dreams. This was awful. He _had_ to do something to make it all right again.

Padding silently on broad, bare feet into the living room, he kept his gaze on the carpet directly in front of him. Movement flashed in his peripheral vision, and he had to consciously forbid himself to look over at the window. She was still out there. He wondered if the neighbors could see her. _Good grief, I hope not! Please, please don't let her bang on THEIR windows as well!_ Moving on through the dining room into the kitchen, his feet left the rugs and chilled a bit on the brick-patterned tiles of the kitchen floor. Relatively safe in here, he looked up finally, and realized Gina had never enjoyed the breakfast he'd begun for her yesterday. _Yesterday! Twenty-four hours! Has it really only been that?_ Dismayed, he realized that meant the deadline was only another day away. _Assuming the reaper meant two days as in forty-eight hours. Oh no. I hope he didn't mean only daylight, and he'll be showing up tonight! No, please! I don't know what to do!_

Newsie took several deep breaths, fighting panic. _Gina always says focus on the immediate. Breakfast. I should make breakfast. Try to make up for yesterday…and last night._ Ashamed of himself for not being a Muppet of stronger stuff, he busied himself fixing a fresh carafe of rich coffee and warming up the iced cranberry scones his beloved preferred. _One more day to figure something out. What am I going to do? I don't want to lose Gina!_ Surely even Death didn't have the authority to just take him, or Gina, right? Not yet! What then? _If Death can't stand having Mother around, and I refuse to break up with Gina, and Mother won't budge…then…then…what's the alternative?_ Thoughts churned through his head, all unpleasant. He was pouring two glasses of strawberry soymilk when he noticed lovely bare feet in the doorway. His startled eyes followed up the lean, toned legs to the slinky black satin nightshirt and, finally, the sleepy, bemused face of the young woman he loved. He stopped, staring at her, not sure what to say. "Uh," was about all he could immediately manage.

Gina squinted at him, not fully awake.

"Er…" Newsie said.

Gina sighed, leaning against the doorframe.

"Um," Newsie said, feeling like an idiot. "Uh…good morning?"

She looked at him blankly a moment longer. Then she slowly knelt. Instantly Newsie went to her, relieved that she opened her arms to him. He embraced her tightly. She hugged back, wordless, but he felt the tension go out of her shoulders. When her fingers began toying with his uncombed hair, he sighed, closing his eyes.

"You're up early," she whispered. Her voice told him she was too tired to even be conscious yet. He hoped the coffee grinder hadn't woken her, feeling guilty again.

"I couldn't sleep," he replied, and felt her nod. Slowly she released him and stood up, moving to the kitchen table to sit.

"I had…bad dreams." She simply looked at him; his toes fidgeted against the hard floor, and he couldn't meet her eyes. "I'm glad you're here."

"Where else would I be?" he asked, confused.

Gina shook her head, her hair falling over her face. "Don't… Just forget it. Was just a dream."

Newsie took her hands gently in his. "I'm…I'm sorry." He swallowed hard. "I love you." He could hear how rough his voice sounded, but she smiled even though her eyes remained closed.

"I love you, Newsie. Sorry you couldn't sleep."

"No, no. It was…" Frustrated, he sighed. "Um. Do you want breakfast?"

Gina nodded sleepily. At once he brought her coffee, scones, and milk. Watching her sniff deeply was a pleasure, as was the smile which slowly crept across her face. "Mmmm. My observant journalist knows me."

Newsie could only nod at that, still feeling very much a failure, knowing the breakfast didn't make up for much or solve anything. It wasn't nearly enough. At least she seemed pleased, and began sipping the coffee and nibbling one of the warm scones. He sat a while, hands curled around his own coffee mug, just watching her carefully lick the icing from her fingertips between bites. It amazed him that a woman who could be so… _passionately_ involved in the bedroom at night…could also appear so childlike at the breakfast table, before she was fully awake. She noticed him studying her, and smiled a little, and reached over to daub a bit of melted icing on his nose. "Oops. You got something on you there."

"Heh," he tried, his heart not really in it. When she leaned over to kiss away the sticky spot, his eyes shut, guilt washing through him. _I don't deserve her. She's not bad for me at all – she's too good for me!_ Gina sensed his unease, and pulled back, frowning.

"Since when do you not like nose kisses?"

"No, I –I love them," he assured her hastily.

"Are those too immoral for you now?" she snapped. Newsie blinked at her, hurt. Gina lowered her head, sighing. After a long pause, she muttered, "I'm sorry, Newsie. Very bad night. I'm sorry."

He nodded, unable to say anything in his own defense. Gina picked at her second scone; reluctantly he made himself drink some of the milk, although he wasn't hungry in the least. He'd need _some_ kind of nutrients, anyway, and had learned to like the vaguely-sweet soymilk. It beat plain oatmeal.

At length, after drinking her entire cup of coffee and some of her milk, Gina asked carefully, "So…have you decided what to do?"

"What to do?"

Gina met his hesitant gaze firmly. "She's still out there."

"I…I know."

"We have one day left."

"I know."

When he said nothing further, Gina sighed again, and took his hand in hers. "I love you."

He couldn't reply, feeling choked, but he nodded.

"Newsie…you have to tell her to go away. She's not going to ever listen to _me,_ but if you were firm with her and really put your foot down, she'd have to accept the situation."

"She'll _never_ accept the situation!" He glanced up at Gina only a moment before returning his stare to the tabletop. "Gina, you don't… She's not the kind of person you can _convince_ of anything, once she's made a decision. I was never able to reason with her about anything! And since she's…dead, she seems even…even more implacable."

"All right," Gina said quietly. "So what are you going to tell Death?"

He shook his head in despair. "I don't know."

"You don't know?"

He blinked up at her, hearing the threatening tone in her voice. Her gray eyes seemed a little colder. "Hm. How about 'Hey, Mr Death, I'm not leaving my girlfriend, and you don't have the right to take either of us away, and why don't you just lock the witch up in a deep, dark cell somewhere and leave us alone?'" Gina asked angrily. "How about 'Man up and deal with her yourself and let the living live?'"

"I could never say that to…to _him!"_ Newsie gulped.

"Then what do you think is going to happen?" Gina demanded. "Newsie, I can't fight this one for you; you're going to have to throw it right back at him! The dead are _his_ problem, not ours!"

"I thought…I thought maybe…" Newsie tried his best to put some strength into his voice; it still sounded like a fainter croak than Robin's to him. "Maybe he could just…leave her here."

"Leave her _here?"_ She stared at him incredulously. "Oh, yeah! What a _great_ idea! I'd _love_ having an angry dead hag hanging around outside the window every minute!"

Newsie flushed pink. "We could…we could put up curtains," he mumbled.

"Newsie! I am _not_ killing the houseplants and hiding away in a dark cave just to keep from seeing her ugly face day in and day out! And do you know how long that protection spell lasts? _Do_ you?" Frightened, he shook his head, and she spat, "One month, tops! For a determined nuisance like that, probably only about two weeks, and then I'll have to redo it – over and over! And that's just the apartment – do you suggest I also cast a banishment over your theatre? And mine? And the grocery store and your news station and every single place we go? Just to avoid her hounding us – or _worse?"_

"I…I don't…what else can we do?" Newsie asked, startled when Gina shoved her chair back.

"I am _not_ living like that! That's not living, that's _hiding,_ and I am not willing to spend the rest of my life having to deal with your _stupid dead mother!_ Do you _get_ that?" she yelled, and he cringed. She stopped, breathing hard, clearly struggling to get her anger under control. Finally she said, more quietly, "Newsie…my sweet Newsman…I adore you, still. But. I will _not._ Live that way. Not even for you."

She glared at him, waiting for his response; he had no idea what to say, what to do. Eyes narrowing, she suddenly left the room.

Newsie sat there, stunned, horrified. Was she leaving? Was she going to _leave_ him? Over _this_ , because he couldn't stand up to his mother – or to Death? He forced himself up, forced his feet to take him through the apartment again, glimpsed Mrs Crimp still hovering outside the living room; the sight spurred him down the hall faster. Gina was already half-dressed in well-worn gray cargo capris with black metal chains and studs darkly gleaming all over, and she pulled on a black t-shirt with the logo _Nine Inch Snails_ as he stopped in the bedroom doorway. "Gina," he choked. "Gina…"

She said nothing, shooting a hurt glare at him, putting in a pair of dangling black skull earrings. He'd never seen her dress so…so…dark. Everything about the outfit seemed to thumb its cultural nose at his own more conservative wardrobe. She yanked flexible black shoes onto her feet, pulled her hair quickly into a ponytail and looped a simple black band to hold it in place without even brushing it. "I need to go out for a while. I'll see you tonight, _if_ you still want to be there with me." Her pointed look shot right through him, and he instinctively grasped the doorframe.

"Gina…Gina, don't…I can't…" he gulped, unable to voice his fear.

Her voice rose in both tone and pitch. "You should get ready. Don't you have a busy day of avoiding things ahead of you?" She paused at the bedroom door, looking down at him, blinking hard. "Good luck with that."

He felt the tears coming, trying hard not to let them. He heard the front door slam. He kept hold of the doorframe, but sank down, eventually sitting on the bedroom rug, crying openly, too absorbed in his own grief to recognize that she'd just broken down as well.

The phone rang right as Beaker pressed the activation button for the laser.

"Meeeeep!" he squealed, the kickback from the force of the beam staggering him.

"That's it, Beaker! Keep it level! Don't let it zoom all over the place!" Bunsen urged him, then turned to the jumble of parts and pieces strewn over their worktable to find the phone while his ringtone, the chorus from the Busboys' song "Cleanin' Up the Town," continued to play. "Ah! Hello, Muppet Labs, where the future is being made today!"

Bunsen almost didn't recognize the voice; she sounded flat and terse. "Dr Honeydew? It's Gina."

"Oh! Oh, yes, hello, Miss Broucek! How is everything?"

Beaker finally got the wildly dancing laserbeam under control, practicing aiming it at a Muppet cheese, which stopped singing "On Top of Spaghetti" and fell inanimate, if likely inedible. Pleased, he next tried the snapping, fortunately chained-up Muppet sofa, which they'd lured away from its pack at the edge of Queens where it had been roaming feral since 1977.

Gina responded, "Great. Have you made any progress on that project I asked you about?"

"Oh, yes! We've built the prototype and are testing it as we speak!" Bunsen said proudly. On the other side of the room, Beaker glared and meeped fiercely, shooting the laser like a squirtgun all over the raving sofa, and it gasped, croaked, and slumped, its eyes turning into harmless doilies and its mouth relaxing into mere moldy cushions.

"Mee meep meep!" Beaker called happily. For once, an experiment which worked well! He was definitely appreciating its anti-animate properties.

"Well done, Beakie!" Bunsen told him. Beaker smiled, standing up taller, turning off the laser. Just as he powered the whole thing down, Bunsen trotted over to the wall and pulled a lever, opening a glass sliding panel which had arcane symbols etched all over it. "Now let's see how it does against an actual ghost Muppet!" Startled, Beaker stepped back, frantically looking from the malevolently-fanged, one-eyed, axe-wielding creature which floated out of its glass prison cell to his cooling-down spectral electron-disrupting anti-Muppaspectre beam-thrower…which would need another five minutes to reboot.

"So it works?" Gina asked.

"Oh, quite well!" Bunsen proclaimed happily.

 _"_ _Meeeeee!"_ Beaker shrieked, ducking as the ghost hurled the axe at him, only to have it reappear in the phantom's hand and get thrown again. He punched the ON button of the laser over and over.

"How soon will it be ready?" Gina wanted to know.

"Oh, well, we're doing the final test now! I was able to procure the ghost of an infamous mass-maimer known in life as the Cherryville Chopper!" Bunsen turned finally to see Beaker ducking, dodging, squealing, and tapping every button on the laser as fast as his pink fingers could move, while the ghost chortled and threw his axe over and over and over, destroying a chair, gouging the walls, and setting off an explosion when one blade whirled through a delicate chemistry experiment separating pure hydrogen from aqueous hyrogen sulfide.

BOOOOOM!

 _"_ _Meeeeeep!"_

"Ah," Bunsen stammered, taken aback. "Ah…soon! Very soon! I'm sorry, Miss Broucek, but I need to get back to work…see you soon…bye bye…" He snapped the phone shut and called out, annoyed, "Beaker! Be _careful!_ Do you know how much a genuinely murderous Muppet ghost _costs?_ Those are _extremely_ rare!"

They stared at one another through the window a long time, the Newsman in trepidation, his mother with a haughty expression.

 _For Gina,_ he told himself, shivering. After all they'd been through, he was going to lose her if he couldn't do this. He couldn't bear that thought. Mother was just going to have to be mad at him. That was all there was to it. _I have to do this, and accept the consequences,_ he thought, frightened. As terrified of telling his mother off as he was, especially seeing her floating, grey and immovable as stone, right outside waiting for him, Newsie was more frightened of losing the best thing in his life, ever. _I'll…I'll tell Mother I'm never listening to her again, not ever! And she can complain and rant and...and hurt me…all she wants…but I'm not leaving Gina, and I'm not going with Mother, and she's not going to bother Gina again! Whatever that takes!_

He jumped, his glasses bouncing on his nose, when his watch alarm went off in the bedroom, reminding him it was time to shower and get ready for work. Shuddering, he turned away from the unwelcome visitor on the opposite side of the glass, remembering he was supposed to be at the museum again today for the last of his special reports before the exhibit unveiling tomorrow morning. In the shower, he kept turning up the hot water; he couldn't stop shivering.

Grateful for the sheltered atmosphere of the bedroom a little later, he stood wrapped in one of Gina's oversized bath towels from chest to toes, unhappily looking through his remaining clothes. To heck with visual interest, he decided; he simply didn't feel cheerful enough to put on something bright. Although it would be hot to wear outside, he dressed in his dark gray pants and matching jacket over a plain white shirt and plain gray silk tie, a newer, serious outfit more suitable for delivering reports of casualties overseas than trying to hype the Muppet natural history exhibit. He didn't care. _I can't lose her,_ he kept thinking as he automatically knotted his tie, combed his hair, tied his shoelaces. _Oh, Gina, please don't leave. Please don't._ He was too upset to think that if anyone would have to leave, it would be him; the apartment was technically hers, not his.

His mother appeared beside him as soon as his shoes hit the sidewalk.

"I see you finally put some clothes on," she said snidely. "I was wondering whether you forgot what appropriate attire was!"

He did his best to ignore her, walking on with his jaw set. Frowning, she persisted, "I saw your leggy trollop blow by in the most _atrocious_ outfit. Does this mean you've got rid of her?"

"Gina is _not_ a trollop, Mother!" Newsie shouted, making several early lunch-hour commuters turn their heads. Humiliated, flushed, he increased his pace; years ago, when she'd been complaining about her hip constantly, he'd been able to outrun her with a fast walking speed. Not anymore; she glided effortlessly alongside, sneering at him.

"Oh no? Dressed like some…some horrible stone-and-roll fanatic, like those crazy teens on Dick Clark's show?" Mrs Crimp sniffed. "Why, that rag she had on was tight enough to be a corset – as if the wanton little puppy knew what _that_ was!"

"Mother, stop it! Just _stop_ it!" He halted in the middle of the busy sidewalk, ashamed of doing this in public, having no choice. "For the last time, I don't _care_ what you think! Do you understand? _I don't care!_ I love her! I don't care if me being with her makes you…makes you lose face with your old-dead-ladies bridge club or whatever! I don't care how awful you think our relationship is! Yes I live with her! Yes I _sleep_ with her!" He was shouting at top volume now; the passersby edged away as they hurried around the two Muppets blocking a few feet of the right-of-way. "And—and—I'm _happy!_ So you can just – just go to _heck!"_

Tears were streaming past his glasses. Angrily he turned away, whipping them off his nose and wiping his face with his handkerchief. He could feel the cold radiating off his mother over his shoulder, a cold which put the exhausting heat of the day to shame. As he shoved the glasses back on, his chest tight, eyes hot, he saw his mother staring at him; involuntarily he shivered. Those pinpoint, glowing eyes were tiny lasers of anti-happiness. They always had been, he realized. Even when she was alive. One icy glare from her, and he'd always wanted to shrink into nothingness, to be invisible, to be nonexistent, just to escape that scorn.

"What makes you think she feels anything for _you?"_ Mrs Crimp asked coldly, and he felt his heart contract.

"She—she—she's told me so! She loves me! She says so!" Newsie protested, but his fear gave Mrs Crimp all the opening she needed to press the attack.

"A loose girl like that? Feh!" Mrs Crimp looked as though she wanted to spit, then thought better of it. "And whose salary is she living off of? She dresses like a hobo, you have a decent suit! I can see quite well who's making the money here!"

"She made more than me when we met!" Newsie argued. "Don't even go there, Mother! Gina loves me!"

She slapped him.

"That's for being _stupid,"_ Mrs Crimp snapped. _"What_ have I told you about those kind of girls! You should be taking care of _me,_ after all I've done for you, Aloysius! Not giving your money to that reckless little –"

"Mother! _You – are –DEAD!"_ the Newsman yelled, fists clenched, almost nose to nose with her. "I _did_ take care of you! I spent my whole _life_ taking care of you! And now you are _dead_ and I – I – I'm _glad!"_

 _Oh!_ He stopped, stunned at what had just come out of his mouth. His mother even looked startled. _Oh good grief…oh…it's TRUE!_ He gaped, anger ovewhelmed by surprise, then guilt, then…amazement. All this time…he'd never even thought about it…through years of living alone, in rickety slums because he couldn't afford anything better, after he'd spent all he earned and gone into debt on top of it, just to provide his demanding mother with everything she insisted she deserved, right down to the velvet-flocked casket. Even before he met Gina, even living in near-poverty, even when he'd been fired from the TV station and relied solely on his meagre Muppet Theatre salary, yes, even then…he'd been _relieved._ Relieved she was gone. Relieved he'd never hear her harping, grating voice again, or see her proud, hurt expression, or feel guilty for not doing something else right in her eyes. Newsie gulped, astonished at himself. Then he stared at the ghost, and his gaze hardened, and he said calmly, quietly, "Mother, I don't need you. I don't want you. Get out of my life."

Startled, Mrs Crimp backed away a step, for once looking unsure around her son. "I…I can't believe you're saying these things, to your own mother!"

Newsie swallowed back a sour taste, but his voice gained a little more strength. "Believe it. And go away. Forever."

She hesitated. Newsie glared at her, then resolutely turned his back and made his feet start moving again. He couldn't believe he was actually doing this. Walking away from her, once and for all! His heart was pounding in his ears; his throat was dry as cloth. But he was doing it. Finally, truly walking away.

And then she said, "Then I suppose you don't want to hear _who_ she's been cheating on you with."

He stumbled. _No. No! Gina wouldn't do that! It's a lie!_ He tried to ignore his mother, resuming his pace, not looking back. He felt her cold form slide up behind him, and a cold wind breathed on his ear: "That tall delinquent with all the nasty tattoos, that's who!"

Newsie stopped, looking back at his mother, eyes wide. "N-no! You're lying!"

"Oh _am_ I? Your own mother, who only ever wanted what was best for you, even when _you_ were too foolish to know what that was?" Smiling nastily, Mrs Crimp hissed, "Do you _really_ think a tall, young girl like that would want to be with _you,_ when she can get her jollies with another young, immoral, non-Muppet brute? I'm sure she knows how absurdly blind you are to the evils of the world! I'll bet she ran out of here this morning _right_ into his big, tall, lusty arms!"

"Shut up!" Newsie said, jerking back when his mother leaned in suddenly. "Gina wouldn't…no!"

"She's not a Muppet! She has no morals! Why on earth would you think a tramp like that would be _faithful?_ I'll bet she even has other men besides!"

"You're lying to upset me! You just want me to break up with her!" Newsie accused. "You have no proof at all! You're just making this up!"

"Proof? Oh, I see, the fool of my own blood can't take his own mother's word for it, hm? Do you really think of yourself as some high-and-mighty reporter? 'Newsman,' indeed! _Cuckold,_ more like!" As Newsie spluttered, too furious to speak, Mrs Crimp waggled a gray finger at him. "Fine! You want proof? You'll get it in spades! Just remember, you _asked_ for it! And don't come crying later to _me!"_ With a satisfied nod, the ghost suddenly vanished.

Newsie stood, trembling in rage, abruptly alone in the crowd. Taller people flowed around him, casting irritated looks his way, unheeded. The noon sun beat down on the pavement, relentless, but even dressed in his heavy, dark suit, the Muppet Newsman felt frozen, from his heart out to the tip of his pointed nose...even the spot Gina had kissed again, just this morning. Frozen.


	9. Chapter 9

"Eight ball, corner pocket!"

"Uh, no, Fozzie. You're not supposed to go after the eight until everything else has been sunk," Rowlf explained patiently.

"Oh, _okay,"_ Fozzie said, looking sheepish. "Thank you for teaching me pool, Rowlf! Dis is really a fun game! Aaa _aaaah!"_ With many unnecessary waves and waggles of his pool cue, Fozzie finally lined up on the thirteen and somehow managed to hit the cue ball properly. The cue cracked nicely against the ball, sending it thunking into a side pocket. "Oh! I forgot to call da shot!"

Rowlf sighed. "That's okay, Fozzie. It, uh, it was my ball anyway. You're solids. I'm stripes."

"Hey! Speaking of stripes, didja hear da one about da zebra who got a job as a crossing-guard?"

"Uh, no."

"He quit after just a week – he felt like his customers kept trying to walk all over him! Ahhhhh! Fun-ny!" Fozzie said brightly, waving his cue in the air. Fortunately the pool hall was almost empty at this bright, hot hour of the day, and he didn't hit anyone with the careless gesture. Rowlf emptied out his bottle of IBC root beer, glad for the company even if the bear's inability to play the game correctly was a little frustrating. He usually played with Zoot, and their afternoon games were pleasantly quiet, both of them glad for the comfortable silence they could share away from the rest of the Muppets once or twice a week. However, today Zoot had hesitantly told the piano player that he'd be attending a concert at the Conservatory of Jazz, where the young Dutch girl he'd met earlier this year was playing sax in a combo as part of a day of student performances at the prestigious music school. So Rowlf had needed another pool partner, and Fozzie was the only Muppet around to ask, except for Crazy Harry. Rowlf figured the owner of the pool hall would prefer a few bad jokes to things exploding.

"Glad you're having fun, Fozzie. Want another root beer?"

"Oh, I don't know. Is dat…is dat considered okay at dis hour?" Fozzie whispered, glancing around. Most of the other players, scattered widely around the hall, had beers or shots perched on the rails of the tables.

"Uh, yeah. Just don't have more than three," Rowlf said, and happily Fozzie took their empties to the bar to get two fresh bottles. Rowlf walked slowly around the table, peering high and low at the remaining balls on their table, trying to decide which shot to take. Movement at the front entry caught his eye, and then a familiar, spicy scent, cinnamon, cloves and amber, wafted his way. _Newsie's girl? What's she doing here?_ Rowlf wondered. He watched her as she went over to the desk next to the bar to pay for a table and selected a tall stick from the cues behind the desk.

Fozzie ran into her first. Gina looked up just in time to see him approaching, and thought _Oh, great. Right when I wanted to be alone._ But she forced a smile, hoping he wouldn't see the effort it cost her to be polite right now.

"Gina! Aaaaa _ahhh!_ Did you come to play pool too?" There was nothing fake about Fozzie's smile; Gina reflected that the Muppet bear was even more open and innocent than her Newsman. He gestured to a table a little to the right of the bar, where the large brown dog was watching them. "Me and Rowlf are playing over there! Wanna join us?"

"Thanks, Fozzie. That's really sweet of you…but I actually came here to, um, to work out some stuff in my head. Alone. Okay?"

"Oh," Fozzie said, his smile faltering. "Oh, sure, sure! But, uh, if you change your mind…"

"I'll be sure and come over if I feel like company. Thank you, Fozzie. Tell Rowlf I said hi," Gina said, dredging the dog's name from her roiling thoughts. She hadn't seen a lot of either of them since the auction a few months back; her own schedule, up until about a month ago, had been fairly hectic. She walked to an empty table, ringed at the moment by other unoccupied ones, so as to be far enough away from everyone that hopefully no one would bother her. Setting down the tray with the rack of billiard balls, all yellowed and a little chipped in places, she thought about other times she'd come down here with some of the guys from work, and before that, from college. The cheapness of the place was the leading attraction, even if it did mean putting up with the occasional cracked slate, worn felt on the tabletops, or balls which would spin just a little off-angle. The city's nonsmoking laws made it better, although without the former curtain of haze in the room, it was easier to see the seediness of the place.

Sighing, she positioned the rack on the table and removed it carefully; none of the balls tried to roll away, so at least this one was level. It had been over a year since she'd been in here, and sometimes the owner had moved tables around in a pretense of getting rid of the worst ones, so even memorizing which ones had been problematic didn't always work. She uncapped a hard cider and took a long swig, knowing alcohol in the middle of a hot day wasn't the wisest choice, but she really just wanted to retreat from the world at the moment. One wasn't going to hurt.

Fozzie looked uncertainly at their table. "Did you take your shot, Rowlf?"

"Not yet, Fozzie, why?" Rowlf kept glancing over at Gina, realizing something was truly wrong when he saw something decidedly not a root beer in her hand.

"Could I try dat last shot over again?"

Rowlf sighed. "Sure, Fozzie." Happily the bear dug the thirteen out of the pocket and attempted to remember where it and the cueball had been placed. Rowlf watched Gina line up her cue; at the loud _thwock!_ of the break, several other players glanced over, and Fozzie jumped. _Lotta anger in that sound,_ Rowlf thought.

"Wow, she hit dat really hard! Am I supposed to be hitting 'em dat hard?" Fozzie wondered.

"It's probably better if you don't," Rowlf advised, imagining the balls flying all over the hall if the bear tried to put more force into his shots.

Gina moved slowly down one rail, deciding she was just going to take practice shots in no particular order. She lined up a straight sighting on the three, plunked it quickly into a corner pocket, then followed the cueball's rebound until it stopped and immediately took the next shot, a bank off the side rail for a double. Doing this usually used to calm her, but today she was too upset to enjoy it. _I can't believe he even thought about having that witch stick around! Why am I even bothering?_ she thought, hating the whole morning so far. She'd had a long, excruciating nightmare, wherein her beloved journalist had told her all he'd done with her was wrong and sinful and he was going to the land of punishment with his mother. A lot of the dream had involved her screaming protests, unable to get near, while she saw Newsie willingly bow his head and let heavy chains be draped over his shoulders, and then the smirking old hag had led him off like a chastened dog. When she'd cried out to him, it was as though he didn't even hear her, responding only to his mother's constant stream of invective and insult with repeated, humble, "Yes, mother"s. Waking to find him _there_ still had been a huge relief, and his fixing breakfast for her had made her think maybe he'd made up his mind about whom he belonged with…and then _that. He still can't do it. No matter how nasty she is to him, he can't let go. He can't pull himself free of her._

 _Thwack!_

The bartender threw her a scowl. Gina ignored him. It wasn't as though any further damage could be done to this place. She remembered one afternoon, years before, when she and Scott and James had burst into hysterics after one of James' shots broke a cuestick, jumped the cueball off the table, denting it slightly, and then the wildly rolling ball had knocked loose one of the table legs, nearly collapsing the whole thing. _What a dump. Cheap is as cheap does, I guess._ She drank more of the cider, starting to feel a little lightheaded; she'd stormed over here in a rush of adrenaline, pausing only once at a street crossing to phone the Muppet Labs guys in the failed hope that her secret weapon was ready to use. At this point, she'd happily have blasted the ghost to kingdom come – or wherever horrible old women went – and to heck with what Newsie might've felt about that. _How can he even stand her? He's a grown Muppet, for crying out loud! Why can't he tell her to stuff it down her ugly old dress and get out of his life?_ Despairing, she missed a kiss shot, too angry to be gentle.

"Hey! Rowlf! I did it! Didja see dat?"

"Uh, yeah. Good job," Rowlf said, glancing over at the table where Fozzie had indeed managed to sink the shot he'd called. He wasn't paying much attention to his own game, his shots absentmindedly accurate but not challenging, his gaze focused on the quick, jerking movements Gina made around her own solitary table. Fozzie noticed, and bit his lip uncertainly.

"Uh…do ya think maybe the Newsman's busy today?" Fozzie asked.

Rowlf shook his head. "I guess so."

"Or…or maybe he doesn't play pool!" Fozzie guessed.

"Yeah, maybe not." Rowlf watched Gina a moment longer, then shook his head, ears flapping gently. "Something's up."

Fozzie made no reply, casting a worried look at the other table. "Does she usually come play here?"

"Not that I've seen. We're closer to the theatre than we are to her and Newsie's place, I think. She hasn't been here when Zoot and I've been playing," Rowlf mused.

Fozzie fiddled with his cuestick, silent. Rowlf turned back to their table, gesturing at Fozzie. "Come on. If you make a shot you get to take another, remember? So pick one and try for it."

The bear started to line up his stick, then paused. "Rowlf?"

"Hm?"

"Does she look…mad to you? Angry mad?"

"Yeah, Fozzie. She does," Rowlf sighed.

"Oh…I was hoping it was just me," Fozzie said sadly.

Gina had sunk about half the balls, out of order, barely paying attention to her shots, feeling more upset than she had when she'd come in. This wasn't helping at all; if anything, her mind was _more_ turbulent. _Newsie…don't you love me? Don't you know all we've done so far is just the tip of things? I thought you were happy with me!_ She'd been his first lover, she knew, and had done her best to be gentle with him until he was used to the unfamiliar joys of completely losing all track of time, or outside obligations, or sense of self beyond the delight of every inch of his felt. His modesty, shyness, and lack of experience had been wonderful for her, and she loved it that even after he'd accepted that aspect of their relationship, she could still easily make him blush. If all it took for him to doubt the rightness of being with her was to have a judgmental, accusatory old shrike _tell_ him he was being bad…then how deep did his love really run? _Oh, Newsie…if you really feel that way…why did you stay with me this long? I thought you WANTED to be with me!_ Gina felt tears beginning, and wiped them away with her fingers. Her eyes were already raw.

Maybe he'd simply been under that hag's thumb for too long. Maybe he could never be his own Muppet now. _A dog used to being beaten thinks it's love. Women stay with abusive husbands because they don't know any other life. Breaking free of that is scary, they say. Oh, Newsie…my Aloysius. I can't even ever call you that again, after how many times the witch has snarled it at you! She makes it sound like a curse!_ Gina shook her head, disgusted. _Grandmama Angie, I wish you were here. I wish I could talk to you. You'd know what to do to make him wake up. Or is that just never going to happen, no matter what? Has his mother really won?_ She couldn't bear the thought of going back to the apartment. She'd have to at some point, to get ready for the show tonight. As mood-suiting as her current outfit was, it was unacceptable for running the tech booth for a charity show which hoped to draw in upper-class donors. What if she went back and Newsie was there? What would she say to him? What, if anything, would he say to her? He'd been apparently unable to choke out anything this morning. _And what if I go back and he's NOT there? What if he DOES go with Mommy Dearest?_ She felt ill. She swigged down the rest of her cider in a long gulp anyway.

"You gonna order again? It's a two-drunk minimum here," a deep voice growled.

Gina looked up, about to snap back something unoriginal but heartfelt, then saw Scott standing there. She relaxed only slightly. "What are you doing here?" she asked.

"Was kinda hoping to practice a little since the Hat has sworn to wipe the table with my skinny, hipless butt, as he put it yesterday, but I can't find an empty table," Scott rumbled. Gina looked up at him, then around at the multitude of empty tables. She shook her head at him. Scott grinned. "Mind if I play through?" He placed a cuestick against the plain ivory ball on the table like a golf pro. "So, what we have here, see, is de pro linin' up his shot; checkin' da wind, checkin' da green…Fore!"

A couple of heads turned, but the lanky techie didn't follow through. "This isn't a country club. And I'd rather be alone, okay?" Gina snapped.

"Whatever you say," Scott agreed, not leaving. Gina stood there, waiting, fuming, but her friend simply folded his arms around his stick, rocking back and forth heel-to-toe in enormous sneakers. Although skinny enough to play a beanpole, he was over six feet, and his deadpan face and walking canvas of tattoos tended to intimidate people; even Gina, who knew better, edged away from him a little, and finally decided to ignore him. She bent over the table to reach the cueball for her next shot. The seven hit the side pocket so hard it almost bounced out again. "Doesn't count; you didn't call it," Scott said.

Gina straightened up, glaring at him. "What part of 'alone' are you not getting? You really _are_ blond!"

"And white, and skinny," he agreed easily. "Hey, aren't those guys over there with the Muppets? I remember the dog plays a mean piano."

Gina glanced at the other table; Rowlf nodded at them. Fozzie gave a half-wave, looking concerned. Scott waved back. "Don't invite them over," Gina hissed. "Alone, remember? _Alone!"_

"Okay, whatever," Scott said. He watched her circle the table, trying to focus, clearly upset. "You wanna tell me what's up?"

"Nothing's up." _Thwock!_

"This have anything to do with Paul?"

"Paul? No." _Ka-thwack!_

"Shoulda used the bridge," Scott observed. "You're too short."

"Funny. Real funny. Don't you have something to do somewhere else?"

"So if it's not the show, and it's not the moron producing the show, then it must be about Newsman," Scott said. Gina stopped, glared at him, and immediately resumed her pursuit of the eight-ball.

"You still have three balls left out."

"I don't care. I'm sinking this and then I'm leaving."

"Did he piss you off?"

"He…he…dammit Scott! It's none of your business!"

"Hey. How long we been friends?"

Gina didn't answer. Scott mimicked her softer voice: "Oh, why, about twelve years now, Scott." He switched to his own baritone rumble: "And how long have we told each other pretty much everything? Best friends, right?" Back to fake-Gina: "Oh, Scott, you _gadjo_ devil! I am _not_ telling you about what trouble I'm having getting that shy boyfriend of mine to try the Vegas-ninety-three position!"

"You know, I am _not_ even going to ask what that is," Gina said curtly, unamused.

"Good, 'cause then I'd have to ask the bartender, 'cause I don't know either, and I'm pretty sure he hates me for only ever ordering plain club sodas with lime."

Gina gave up, standing still, head bowed, holding onto her stick with both hands, leaning on it like a staff. Scott waited.

"He can't let go of his mother," Gina said finally in a quiet voice. "She's…she's abusive. I mean really, really nasty to him. And he's terrified of her."

"Ah." Scott considered this. "I could go get her chucked in jail. Would he freak?"

"Scott…she's dead."

He looked at her, amused for a second, then saw how serious she was. "Uh…what exactly are we talking about here? She's…a ghost?"

"Yes."

"And…she's terrorizing him? Still?"

"More like 'again.' She hates me. Thinks I've corrupted her son."

Scott considered the changes he'd noticed in behavior, subtle but significant, the times he'd been around the couple. From being embarrassed to anyone seeing them kiss, the Newsman had progressed to blushing but staying pressed close to Gina. He'd put his arm around Gina several times now in Scott's presence, and leaned into her when she pulled him close to kiss his nose or tousle his often-frazzled hair; clearly, the Muppet had gone from innocent to happily intimate. "Maybe you have. So what?"

"Now _he_ thinks it's a bad thing! She's making him feel guilty, and he won't just tell her off, and he spent half the night in tears because he'd slapped her _once –_ and I found out she'd hit _him!_ Maybe all his life until she died!" Gina smacked the butt of the stick against the floor repeatedly. Gently, Scott reached over and made her stop before the bartender complained.

"Okay, all right, but you gotta know, most abused kids aren't the Menendezes. Most of 'em think they deserve it. I knew a kid in third grade whose dad used to come home drunk and pummel him 'bout every night. He'd come in with broken arms, bruises, the whole nine yards. And I asked him why he didn't tell the teacher, and you know what he said? He said 'I deserved it, I was stupid.' Gina…it's like brainwashing. People that bull happens to most often just take it 'cause they don't know anything else. They don't know they're worth anything. You gotta have patience with your guy. I'm really sorry that's happened to him, for what it's worth."

 _"_ _I_ know he's worth a lot! I tell him so!" Gina argued sharply.

"Did he live with his mom 'til she died?" Scott guessed.

"Yes. And don't you _dare_ say you thought so!"

"I wasn't gonna. And how long has he been living with you?"

"Five months. Three days."

"Uh-huh," Scott grinned at how fast she'd come up with that. "You're counting down to the six-month anniversary, aren't you?"

"If there even is one," Gina muttered.

"Point is: his time under the abuse is a heck of a lot longer than his time feeling at all good about himself with you. So let it go. Just be there for him," Scott advised.

Frustrated, Gina gestured with her empty cider bottle, wanting to fling it hard and listen to the crash. "I _can't!_ There's…there's more to it! It's just complicated, okay? I don't want to talk about it any more!"

Scott tried to take the bottle from her; she held onto it, glaring, and he backed off.

"Rowlf? Are dey gonna fight? Should…should we go over dere and help Gina?" Fozzie asked.

Rowlf watched the body language of the two people arguing. "No…not yet, anyway, Fozzie. I think she's okay. That's her friend from the Sosilly. Looks to me like he's just trying to get her to talk."

"Not like an interrogative thing!" Aghast, Fozzie's paw flew to his mouth.

"Uh, that's 'interrogation.' And no, doesn't look that way. It's okay, Fozzie. Come on, one more game, all right?" As the bear gathered the balls one by one into the rack, setting the triangle the wrong way on the little dot half-peeling off the table felt, Rowlf perked his ears toward the other table a few yards away, able to attune to the conversation taking place there only in the brief silences between the smacking together of chipped epoxy billiards around the room. At least the place wasn't so crowded he couldn't catch any of it.

"Come on, rack 'em. I need the practice," Scott said. Grudgingly, Gina did so, setting them in the correct order inside the rack with a practiced hand. When she lifted the triangle away, Scott almost instantly hit the cueball dead center but with a wicked clockwise spin. _Thunk. Thunk._ "Solids."

"Showoff."

"Hey, like I said, the Hat thinks he's gonna mess me up. I need every trick I can get." Scott deliberately missed his next shot. "Whoops. Think you can make the eleven?"

"In my sleep." She did so, though her eyes stayed open. "If you're going to play, _play._ No more missing shots."

He waited silently for her to line up the next shot, a difficult one along the rail which made her have to attempt the shot behind her back. At the last possible second, he said loudly, "Noonan!"

Gina cursed. She pushed back her bangs, giving Scott a viciously vindictive look as he grinned and shrugged. "What? You told me to play."

"You're an ass."

"No, I never grew one'a those. So tell me something."

Gina sighed, wishing she could go get another cider, knowing her friend would guilt-trip her about it if she did. She was torn between resenting his interference and understanding all he'd said about Newsie was probably true. Maybe she _was_ being too hurt, too selfish. Newsie was clearly in agony this morning. She felt pain in her chest suddenly. Glancing worriedly at her watch, she realized it might be too late to go back and talk to him; if he was going to work today as he'd planned, he'd have left the apartment. Should she call him? Would he even have remembered to take his phone? He was terrible about taking it with him, always embarrassed when she pointed that out, saying he wasn't used to having anything so nice to be concerned with. Gina sighed, raking her fingers through her hair, dislodging and then refastening the hairband. She noticed Scott looking expectantly at her. "What?" she demanded.

"What do you see in him, anyway?"

 _"_ _What?"_ She couldn't believe she'd just heard that. Her grip on the cuestick tightened.

"Well, you know, you wouldn't ever go back home with me…or Alex, or Buddy…and Alex at least was a good-lookin' guy…so what made you pick the Muppet over any of the rest of us?" Scott's expression was so guileless she knew he was leading up to something annoying. Forcing herself to calm down enough to speak, Gina waited until Scott took his shot, and jostled his elbow.

"Not that it's any of your damned business, but he's perfect," she snapped.

"How so? I mean, first there's the height thing…he's, what, three feet?"

"Three-foot-six. You're a horse's ass."

She smacked another striped ball into a corner, the rebound going too far to properly set up the next shot as it should've. She knew she was striking too hard, but couldn't make herself be any gentler.

"Okay, so you being two feet taller doesn't cause any…uh…problems?"

"Scott," she warned, and he held up both hands, grinning.

"Hey Rowlf…if Gina's mad at dat guy, why is he smiling?"

"I think he's trying to get her to see something, Fozzie." When the bear looked confusedly around the room, Rowlf shook his head. "Uh, not like that. I mean see something inside…inside her heart."

"Ohhh," Fozzie said, brightening. "About Newsie?"

The bear's instinct for personal relations always impressed Rowlf. How did a Muppet who'd never even gone steady know these things about other people? "Yeah. About Newsie."

"Good things?"

"I hope so." Rowlf continued to listen; Fozzie gently rolled the cueball back and forth on the table with his paws, understanding the dog was eavesdropping…but maybe that wasn't a bad thing this time.

"Okay, so his being short doesn't bother you, that's great. What about his skin?"

"Since when are you a bigot? You should talk, you walking sketchbook!"

"I mean, what is that? He always looks…kinda fuzzy. Yellow and fuzzy."

"That's _golden,_ and…and…I _like_ the way he feels. Um."

Scott raised his eyebrows. "So that's really his skin? The first time we shook hands I thought he was wearing gloves! Is he like that all over?"

Gina could feel her cheeks reddening. "Yes," she muttered. Angrily she shook off the feeling. "He's a Muppet. That's just how he is. Knock it off, Scott. I'm not titillating you with the details of our love life!"

"Huh, huh. She said ti—"

 _"_ _Scott!"_

"Fine," he replied easily, changing topic. "So what do you like most about him?"

"Most?"

"Yup. It's the nose, right?"

"You're an –"

"Yeah, yeah. Or is it the glasses? Or the retro-geek coats? He looks kinda college-rock."

Rowlf snickered. Fozzie leaned in, though of course he couldn't hear any of the prying discussion. "What? Is he telling her jokes?"

"Sort of…"

"Oh! Rowlf, can you remember 'em for me if they're good? I can always use new jokes!"

"They're all about the Newsman, Fozzie."

"Oh…" Fozzie frowned. "Dat doesn't seem very nice!"

"I think there's a point to it. Shhh…"

Gina stood her ground, glaring up at her fellow techie. "Since you won't leave me alone until this ridiculous discussion is over, fine: I love his mind. I love his dedication to his work, and to his friends, and to his ideals. I love his generosity and his thoughtfulness and his gentleness and even his modesty! That enough for you?"

"And his short, nearsighted, golden-fuzzy-skinnedness?"

"Yes!" Gina tossed her cue onto the table, getting on tiptoe, where even though she wasn't quite in Scott's face, she could get her point physically across better. "And I don't give a rat's butt what you or his mother or anyone else thinks about that! And it took me a _long_ time to gain his trust and I _won't_ let his horrible parent take him away from me, not after all we've already been through!"

"Oh, yeah?" Scott growled.

 _"_ _Yeah!"_ Realizing she was being played, Gina stopped. Scott broke into a wide grin. Relaxing, shaking a little with residual ferocity, Gina sank down again, putting one hand on the table rail. "I feel awful," she confessed.

"Did you tell him where you were going?"

"No…no, I didn't."

"Call him."

Gina sighed. "He never remembers to take his phone. And…and if he's working right now, it would embarrass the heck out of him for me to interrupt. I don't want to do that to him."

Rowlf felt a tap on his shoulder. "Fozzie, I'll tell you everything they said in a minute," Rowlf promised.

"Uh, no…I think we might have trouble!"

"Trouble? What kind of trouble?" Rowlf looked around, and then saw what Fozzie was gulping at. Circling around the tables at the edge of the room was a gray, grim, oddly gliding Muppet in a shapeless dress with a scowling face. Even worse, trailing nervously in her wake came a skinny, mop-headed Muppet with large round shades. "Oh man. Is that Scribbler?" Rowlf asked, surprised to see the tabloid hack out in the daytime. He'd assumed the scandal-loving reporter only crawled out at night with the other insects.

"I think so! And is that…is that…Newsie's mom?" Fozzie shivered. "Rowlf, she looks…um…scary!" he whispered.

"I think that's because she died a few years ago, Fozzie."

"Oh!" Fozzie pulled off his hat, hiding his face behind its ineffective shield.

"There she is! The brazen hussy – out in public, in full view of everyone, with that tattooed heathen!" Mrs Crimp hissed; Scribbler dodged before she could elbow him again. She'd done that once already, and he hadn't liked the dread cold feel of it. Uneasily he studied the redhead having some sort of a heart-to-heart with the tall skinny guy; that was the chick who'd swung him like a politician heaving mud, all right. He wouldn't forget that face…or that arm. He kept well below the level of an adjoining table and out of her line of sight. "That's the shameless floozy who's made my boy into a digusting pervert! Now do your duty, Mr Scumbler, and show my Aloysius I was right all along!"

Scribbler experienced a quick succession of conflicting thoughts. _Humiliating the Newsman with shots of his girlfriend, out with another schmoe… Why can't this biddy remember my name? Old cow, ordering ME around! I only came out here with her because she said it involved Newsie…wait. Did she just call him Aloysius? ALOYSIUS? Hee, hee, hee! Well, maybe this is a good thing after all._ He wasn't sure what to make of the weird grayish-skinned woman who'd cornered him on a stakeout outside an exclusive uptown gym, hoping to get a shot of Trump's new girlfriend…with her girlfriend. All of a sudden, here was this harping old biddy going on about public morals and the obligations of the press to correct misbehavior and how her son was involved with an unfaithful, unsuitable, immoral girl half his age. Scribbler had tried to brush her off, and that was when she'd given him an elbow the first time, and he'd been so startled by the extreme cold radiating from her that he'd shut up and listened a little closer. When she'd said the Newsman was her son, and that his girlfriend was being scandalous… "Lady, I'm still in, but they're not kissing," Scribbler complained now. He made several quick notes on a small, scroungy pad: _Seedy place for a tryst…guy's too skinny, maybe rich?...maybe the chick likes tall men better? 'Standing close together, eyes full of secret understanding' – yeah, that's good. But I'd love a photo op._

"Wait," the gray lady promised, her wide jaw set and her thin lips primly clamped as they watched the two people talking quietly.

"You're really smitten this time," Scott observed.

Gina nodded, rubbing the felt of the table. It felt enough like her Newsie's skin to make her feel even worse about having run out this morning. She should be stroking him, holding him, apologizing right now. "I love him, Scott."

"Well, I've seen the way he just gazes up all adoring at you. Trust me. You're the best thing he's ever experienced and he won't let you go." Gina threw an uncertain look at her friend. Scott smiled. "He loves you. He's just kinda thrown for a loop, if this stuff with his mother is still going on. Just…go slow with him."

"I always do," Gina sighed. "I just…I just wish he'd…I don't know."

"You wish he'd grow a—"

Gina took a threatening step closer, and Scott grinned, breaking off mid-sentence. "So, keep telling him how good he is for you. How good he is, period. He'll man up."

"I hope so. I…I do have a plan B. But I think it would be better for _his_ sake if he could tell her to take a hike," Gina sighed. Scott opened his arms and gave her a smile. Gratefully, Gina allowed him to hug her, long arms clasped respectfully around her shoulders, no lower. She smacked his bony back. "You're still an a-."

"How can I _be_ one when I don't hardly even _have_ one?" he protested. Gina smiled, but then heard the sound of a camera snapping frames. She let go of Scott, turning around, her gaze sweeping the mostly-empty hall. That sound reminded her of…

"Oh I don't believe this," Gina breathed, spotting Scribbler…and right beside him, the smirking face of the spectre she least wanted to see.

Before Gina could even take a step in that direction, before Scott realized what was going on, and before Rowlf and Fozzie could reach them, Mrs Crimp vanished, reappearing instantly behind another player at another table, a large and somewhat inebriated man, the very second he thrust his arm forward for a strong shot. The ghost shoved the man's arm, and his stick hit the cueball at an uppercut angle; the ball sailed over three tables, coming down right at Gina. Scott saw it, and shoved her aside, but Gina, startled and unbalanced, smacked into the pool table, her lower back painfully striking the old wood rail. _Dammit!_ she thought, enraged: _the witch does want me dead!_ She tried to grab the edge of the table, missing, hipbones shooting fire along the previously-injured cracks. Before her head could hit the floor, Scott caught her around the shoulders, one hand cupping the back of her head, dropping to his knees.

And the camera whirred, with Gina and Scott staring into one another's eyes an inch from each other, lips parted in surprise.

Gina fought to get up. Rowlf gave her a hand, and she launched herself at the hack. Mrs Crimp had disappeared again. The burly pool player was hurrying over, looking chagrined at his wild shot. Fozzie hung back a step, dismayed. Scott got his gangly legs under him with difficulty and turned in time to see Gina halfway across the room, in pursuit of a guy even skinnier than he was.

"You son of a –" Gina yelled.

"Hah hah hah! Whadda headline! _'Secondhand Newsman!'_ Whadda scoop!" Scribbler cackled, dodging under tables where Gina had to go around. He raced out the door well ahead of her. Gina burst onto the hot street, casting furious looks all around, but in every direction saw only overheated people trudging along and vendors drinking their own water supplies. No Scribbler. _What the-! Is he a ghost now too?_ She thought, and cursed long and loud. No one even glanced at her; it was too hot to care.

She stomped back inside the pool hall. Rowlf, Fozzie, and Scott gathered anxiously around her. "Are you okay?" Fozzie asked.

"I'm going to kill him," Gina vowed. "This time I really am going to kill him. Rowlf, can you track him, do you think?"

"Uh, sorry," Rowlf apologized, looking abashed. "There's so much hot-garbage-smell out there right now I'm lucky to know where the fire hydrants are!"

"What the heck was that about?" Scott asked.

"Nothing good," Gina said, catching her breath, wondering how the heck Mrs Crimp had known about Scribbler's rivalry with Newsie. She met Scott's concerned gaze, picturing just how that pose must have appeared…how it _would_ appear, no doubt, as soon as the little hack got it into print. Fozzie clutched his hat, looking frightened. Rowlf softly shook his head, and patted her arm in an attempt to reassure her; at least these two knew nothing improper had been going on, she hoped. She tried to calm her heart, which felt as though it was going to burst through her chest. Woozily, she leaned on a table; her back hurt and her hipbone was screaming. The three friends, human and Muppet alike, stood by her, casting worried looks at the door, as if expecting bad news to come whistling in any second. Gina drew deep breaths. "Nothing good," she repeated softly, and tried not to show her pain.

Her fear of losing her Muppet journalist hurt worse than the fall, anyway.


	10. Chapter 10

The Newsman paced the Central Park entry lobby of the Museum of Natural History, waiting for his camera team to arrive. He checked his watch. _Twenty minutes late. Guess Tony's driving._ The sloth was steady and dependable: Newsie could depend on him to show up late every time. The trick was to ask him to be wherever he and his camera were needed about half an hour before the actual shoot-time. _Why am I bothering? I have no idea what to say today._ It was the first time in a very long time he could recall coming to film a report without a script in hand…at least, among those times he had the opportunity to plan ahead and write his own news script. _Why did I let Mother distract me from my work? Irresponsible! Unprofessional!_ he berated himself.

"Boy, do _you_ look like someone scarfed up all your Cheerios," Rhonda remarked, cocking her head to one side to study him. Newsie barely glanced at her before looking around for the camerasloth.

"You're late," Newsie muttered. "Where's Tony?"

"Tommy."

"Right. Tommy. Isn't that what I…never mind." He sighed, seeing no sign of the technician. "I guess we should go figure out what we're filming."

"You didn't write a script?"

Newsie scowled, unable to meet her incredulous stare. "Uh. No."

"I have never _ever_ seen you pass up the opportunity to write your own story! What gives?" Rhonda demanded.

"I…nothing. I just didn't…didn't…really have time." Embarrassed, Newsie started toward the grand stairway and the third level of the museum where the Muppet exhibit would be opening in a few short hours, at the start of the following day. He wondered whether he'd even be there for it, or if Death would decide the only solution was to drag him off with Mother to wherever it was dead Muppets went.

Rhonda scurried around in front of him. "Wait, wait, wait! _You_ blew off writing a special report because you didn't have _time?_ And then you show up here all fidgety and looking like the world's about to end? Newsie!" she squeaked, concerned. _"What_ is going on?"

He swallowed back a sour lump in his throat. "Nothing. Come on. Let's go look around the exhibit. Maybe I'll figure out something to film."

Exasperated, the rat sighed. "Fine, whatever. But you aren't doing it like _that!"_

Newsie glowered. "I see. Saved up a few more insults about my looks or my clothes to use today?" he accused her.

"What? Will you let it die already?" Rhonda snapped. Newsie flinched at her word choice; only an instant, but Rhonda's beady eyes became even beadier as she narrowed them to peer closely at his face. "This discussion is _not_ over, buster. But as I was gonna say, you look like the rain over the parade in that outfit. You need a power tie, at the very least, to keep from sending our audience to another channel. Gray is dull, dull, dull!"

"When I wear colors, you complain they're too loud! Now it's too dull! Make up your mind!" Newsie growled.

"That's because your idea of _color_ makes Ted Turner's movie mutilations look positively tame," Rhonda shot back. "Go on up to the exhibit. I'll grab something and meet you there in five, okay?"

She was gone with a flick of her tail before the Newsman could come up with a retort. Reluctantly he headed upstairs, his thoughts still centered around his mother and the awful accusations she'd made instead of the job he was supposed to be doing. _Why would Mother keep saying Gina isn't being faithful? Gina loves me! She'd never do that!_ Yet as he climbed the broad marble stairs to the third floor of the museum, Newsie's stomach churned unhappily. _No. Mother was lying. It wouldn't be the first time._ He recalled the one teacher he'd been smitten with, in seventh grade, a pretty young intern named Carmen who taught geography and wore a red raincoat on drizzly days. When Newsie's mother had interrupted him trying to make a Valentine's card for the teacher, hand-cut and with sparkly sequins pasted on, terrible consequences had ensued. Mrs Crimp accused Carmen before the school board of stealing an unusual artifact from the school trophy hall, and kicked up such a fuss that some other parents believed the mad story…one bad word led to twenty more…and poor Carmen was dismissed from the school before the year was even over. All because he'd had a crush. Ever since he'd had a bit of a thing for redheads… _Isn't this the same? Good grief, Mother's jealous! She can't stand it when I like someone other than her!_ Not that he'd ever had much success in conveying filial devotion to a woman as demanding and critical as Mother. _This is just the same. She's throwing a hissy fit because she can't stand how I feel about Gina…so she's making up terrible lies. Just ignore it!_ he told himself.

He stopped walking, realizing his feet had carried him into the closed exhibit; he didn't even remember showing the guard his special Muppet press pass. _Had_ there been a guard? Uncertainly Newsie looked around. That weird assistant of Dr Van Neuter's, the blue hunchback, was lurking around the mummy, apparently taking notes. No one else was in sight. Hanging back, as yet unnoticed by the hunchback, the Newsman slowly looked up at the _Muppetasaurus Tex_ at the center of the gallery. It clutched a smaller skeleton in its forepaws, half-crouched, looking over its shoulder at the entry to the exhibit, its spiked tail raised to…wait. Newsie blinked.

He didn't remember there being another fossil in that particular display! It looked…it looked almost as though the _M. Tex_ was feeding on one of the crested Muppet lizard-chicken things…but…but hadn't those been on the other side of the room?

 _"_ _Aaaaagh!"_

"Geez, sorry," Rhonda exclaimed, jumping back; Newsie clutched his tie, eyes wide, breathless after being tapped on the arm. The rat gave him an irritated look. "All right, monsterphobe, dial it down a notch, huh? Here, I got you a tie."

"I…I _have_ a tie," the Newsman argued, showing it to her. His heart was still relocated somewhere just past his sinuses, and now the pounding hurt his brain.

"No, you have what looks like a dead eel strung up to dry too many months. Put this on," Rhonda said, swiftly unknotting his gray tie and slapping another around his neck. It was bright cranberry red, and tiny embroidered bones in ecru thread were scattered all over it. "Cool, huh? Special for the exhibit. I'll spare you the docent's joke about a tie-in." When Newsie hesitated, still feeling uneasy about the apparent changes to the exhibit, Rhonda sighed, and knotted it expertly for him, tucking it into his jacket. "There ya go! Very smart. It practically screams _educational coolness."_ Stepping back, Rhonda judged the look thoughtfully. She sighed. "You really don't look your best in gray; it's too cold a color for you. Ever thought about a warm chocolate brown instead?"

"My old coats were all brown," Newsie grumbled.

"Did I say _plaid?_ Did you _hear_ me say plaid?"

Giving up, Newsie gestured nervously at the _M. Tex._ "Uh…does that look… _different_ to you at all?"

Rhonda glanced at it, and nodded. "Yeah, the dead chicken-thing? Nice touch. Hey, let's film that! It wouldn't give away the surprise to film just the chicken-thing in its claws, right?"

"How did it get there?"

"Newsie…don't you know everything in the museum comes to life at night?" Rhonda teased, grinning. She saw he wasn't laughing, and shook her head. "Honestly! That crazy curator probably put it there! Why don't you go ask his assistant-crazy?"

"Never mind," Newsie growled, irritated. Unfortunately, the assistant in question suddenly spotted them, and headed for them in what might best be described as a loping shamble.

"Awwrah ruh roonga hoffuh magongah!" Mulch said excitedly, waving some papers in their faces.

Rhonda took a step behind Newsie. Newsie blinked at the papers the blue thing shoved against his nose. "Er…hello again, Mr…Mulch, right?"

"Ungalah rowr rugga fuh!" Mulch insisted, tapping the papers, shoving them against the Newsman's glasses. Annoyed, Newsie snatched the papers, holding them at the end of his long nose to peer at them through his thick lenses.

"Uh…ah…well…I…I can't really read your handwriting," Newsie admitted. The papers seemed to be notes, but were all in gibberish.

Mulch sighed, rolling his eyes. He took the notes back, shuffled them, and smacked the top sheet with a heavy hand. "Awr runga," he explained, and began reading aloud, gesturing from the paper to the large glass case holding the partially-unwrapped Muppet mummy. "'Oggah ruh ungah, eeooo un gawagawa, erf hunga!'" He shot a glance full of dire meaning at the Newsman, who simply stared at him. Mulch stomped over a few feet to point at the mummy, its dead, sunken eyesockets appearing to gaze right through the blue hulk. Continuing to read, Mulch enunciated slowly and clearly: "'Huffuh murg gawunuggah, grah! Faffanoog blurgh, grah! Rar rahah araghah-ghaffuh, _grah!_ '" Lowering the papers, he waited for the news crew's reaction.

Newsie blinked. Rhonda's whiskers twitched.

"Whoa, dude," Tommy the camerasloth mumbled, catching up to them. "Like, is that a real mummy?"

"You filmed it yesterday, genius," Rhonda sighed.

Angrily, Mulch jumped up and down in place, gesturing from the mummy to his notes. "Ruh uh _nunga!_ Grffoww _manoggoo_ tuh fooraw!"

"I'm…I'm sure the mummy will be a star attraction," Newsie agreed, guessing. He looked desperately at Ronda for help.

"Don't look at me," she muttered. "I don't speak lackey!"

"I don't either!" Newsie snapped. "And if anyone is anyone's lackey around here, that'd be you, as _my_ reports producer!"

Rhonda suddenly jumped onto his hand, then his shoulder, then his nose, grabbing his glasses and hanging on even though he fell back two steps, startled.

"All right, Golden Boy! Are you gonna tell me what's made you into a jerk the past couple of days, or am I gonna have to cut all your air time and tell the producer you're down with correspondentitis?"

"I'm not being a jerk!" Newsie shouted, but the rat wouldn't let go. A little shocked, he suddenly quieted. "…Am I?"

Rhonda nodded slowly, staring straight at him through his glasses.

Humbled, depressed, Newsie's shoulders slumped. "I'm sorry."

Awkwardly, Rhonda patted his nose. "Okay…just tell me what's got you all hard-bitten and edgy?"

Newsie tried to smile at that; it came out looking more like a grimace. "I thought good reporters _were_ edgy…"

"Your _nose_ is edgy. _You_ are a nervous wreck. Now what the hey, Newsie?"

He sighed. "Could you get off me, please?"

When Rhonda had jumped down, Newsie found a flat, low bench near a couple of the herbivorous _Muppasaurus Bovinocorpi_. Unable to look his friend in the beady eye, he instead kept glancing up at the wide horns and placid jaws of the cow-like fossils. Rhonda sat on the bench in front of him, waiting, but for once seeming more intent than impatient. "It's…er…it's my mother. She…she's trying to break up Gina and me." He gulped, trying to keep down the anger still percolating since the public shouting match with his parent. "She's always…hated," _Oh,_ that hurt to say, but it was true, wasn't it? _"Hated_ for me to enjoy anything. Hated anything that distracted me from _her_ needs." He fumbled for the words to continue, but Rhonda kept silent, letting him work through it. "She…she's been horrible to Gina. Calling her awful names, being so…so rude, and mean…and…" he heaved a breath, "and insisting she's been cheating on me with someone else."

He blinked back a tear, finally looking down at Rhonda. She stood motionless, staring back, and finally reached up and gave him a gentle pat on the cheek. "Uh…Goldie…ya know I have only the highest tolerance for you, right? So I'm gonna say this really gently, 'cause I know you've been hit by one too many wild pitches: uh…you _do_ know your mom is dead, right?"

The Newsman instantly scowled at her. Rhonda sighed. "Geez, I sure hope Rizzo wasn't right! Look, Newsie –"

"I _know_ she's dead! That's the _problem!"_ he yelled. Even Mulch, watching from back by the mummy display, flinched. "Death sent her _back_ here because she won't stop nagging him! She's convinced I shouldn't be with Gina and she won't leave me alone and I just yelled at her, I yelled at my own _mother,_ and Gina thinks I can't stand up to her and I'm too weak and she's going to _leave me_ if I don't—"

"Whoa-ho-ho!" Rhonda squeaked. "Waitaminute! Newsie! There is _no way_ Gina would leave you, not after all you guys have gone through! Now stop! Just stop a second!" They glared at one another. Tommy shifted the camera around uneasily, unsure what to do, standing in the middle of the gallery. Mulch watched them with a baffled look on his homely face, one lower tooth sticking up as he chewed his own jaw. Rhonda gazed, worried, up into the Newsman's unhappy eyes, the shadows underneath them longer than ever. "Start over. Go back to the part about Death getting nagged? Are we talking about _the_ Death?"

The Newsman sighed, thought carefully about his words, and quietly began again: "Yesterday morning, Death showed up at our apartment…" He told her all the salient facts of the story, stammering only mildly when he reached the part where he'd told off his mother an hour ago on his way to the museum. "And so I just…just came here. I can't even imagine what Mother would think is 'proof' of Gina…of her…of her doing anything of the sort! So…now I'm really worried," he confessed, and gave Rhonda an apologetic look. "I'm sorry…if I've been a little testy. I just…I have no idea how to handle all this."

Rhonda flicked her tail back and forth. "Does Gina know yet you gave the old biddy what for?"

He shook his head, looking more mournful than the rat had seen him since he'd been told filling in for the weatherman one night recently at KRAK precluded his plan to attend a seminar at Columbia for "Innovative Verbing of Nouns in Anchorese American English."

"Dude," Tommy interjected slowly, "Your mom's _dead,_ and she's still grounding you? Harsh, dude!"

Newsie shot the camerasloth a glare. Rhonda ignored the interruption. "Well then if you're so worried about what Gina thinks of you right now, why don't you _call_ her and tell her what you did? I'm sure she'll be thrilled! Heck, she'll probably be so proud of you she'll drag you into that tiny closet you call a dressing-room back at the theatre and smother you in a hundred kisses! Just…keep it down, okay? Fozzie thought the ghosts were back last time!"

Newsie started, dismayed. "We weren't _that_ loud! Uh—er—I mean—uh, I don't know what you're referring to! Er…maybe Fozzie heard that ghostly dragon person!" He could feel his cheeks turning red-hot; the last time Gina had shown up in his dressing-room at the Muppet Theatre, things had become a tad…involved.

Rhonda snorted. "Yeah, right! Nah, I'd know your scratchy voice anywhere… although it was really weird hearing _you_ moaning…" Newsie sputtered, shocked; ignoring his discomfort, Rhonda plunged ahead. "So look, call her and tell her what you did! She'll tell you she loves you and how cute your nose is and all that again, and maybe then you'll relax and we can get on with the day's shoot, okay?" Paws on her hips, she glared at him.

Regaining some little dignity, Newsie drew himself upright. "My nose is not _cute,_ it's…it's…patrician. Ahem. And…and…I can't call her," he fell into a mumble, embarrassed. "Er…I forgot my phone…and I can't remember the number to hers."

"Oh, fer cryin' out loud! Your own girlfriend's phone number! Sheesh! Do you even recall your Muppet Security Number?"

"I've never been good with numbers," Newsie muttered, blushing. "Uh…I'm more of a 'who, what, why' sort. Not so much the 'how many.'"

"Remind me to recommend an accountant to you sometime," Rhonda grumbled. She noticed the sloth going into the second part of a fidget, which seemed to be taking him a few minutes to complete. "Great. Now Tommy's getting antsy. Look, as soon as she hears you stood up to Mommy, Gina's gonna adore you all over again. For now, you feel like filing a report, oh glorious network correspondent?"

"On what? I don't have an angle left," Newsie sighed. "I'd really hoped to interview those two experts! But with both of them prevented from attending by such weird circumstances…"

"Newsie! That's it!" Rhonda cried; he blinked at her, befuddled. "Weird circumstances…both linked to the curse of the mysterious tomb of the ancient Muppets!"

Newsie stood up from the bench, scowling. "Ancient Muppet tomb curses? That's ridiculous!"

"Ur funga howwah!" Mulch said, pointing at the mummy.

Newsie dared a look at the thing in the case. Its wrinkled, crumpled, gray face seemed to look back at him, and he shivered. It reminded him far too much of Mother right now. "Are you kidding? It's _perfect!"_ Rhonda exclaimed. "All we have to say is that there've been other tomban legends about mummies and curses, and now we have two scientists out of action who were involved with this whole show…"

"'Tomban legends'?" Newsie repeated skeptically.

"Bear with me. I'm winging it. Sure, maybe there's no connection, but just _implying_ there _might_ be is so cool it'll have everyone in town lining up to see what all the fuss is!" Rhonda insisted. Newsie's scowl didn't lessen.

"It would be a breach of ethics to suggest any sort of connection between two completely unrelated mishaps to the scientists in charge, or to that –that- _thing_ over there!" the Newsman argued.

"I didn't say go all TMZ with it! Just…just say the facts. You can do that, right, mister Serious Journalist?" She planted herself directly in front of him again, glaring up. "Tell the facts, and then talk about the other legends of haunted mummy cases that used to go around this place back in the day! Let the dumb believers draw their own spook-happy conclusions!"

"It sounds more like something those charlatans over at KRAS would stoop to," Newsie snorted.

Rhonda looked pointedly at her watch. "You got a better idea for something to film in the next twenty minutes, hotshot? Or did you not _want_ to get any editing time today?"

Irritated, Newsie had to admit he didn't have another story where the Muppet Natural History exhibit was concerned; his brain was still too astir with conflict and insecurity. He gave in with a curt shrug. Satisfied, Rhonda directed Tommy in shooting a few different angles of the mummy case, working around Mulch. Newsie paced a short line by the bench, pulling out his trusty notepad and a pen and trying to control his thoughts long enough to write some decent lead-in copy for this absurdity. _What is Mother planning? What stunt could she possibly pull? There's no way Gina is…is…no! She says she loves me!_ But his mother's sneer rose in his mind's eye all too easily, her grating voice snarling _what could she see in YOU? You were ALWAYS a disappointment!_

He jumped when the hunchback suddenly stood in his way. As he grabbed his heart through his sports coat, shaking, Mulch tapped his scribbled nonsense notes again, waving them in front of Newsie. "Oorfa lagaa murf wagga!" he insisted.

"Er…right. Absolutely," Newsie said, desperate to get rid of the bizarre interruptions. "Thank you. Uh…we're trying to film a news report here, so if you don't mind, I really need a little quiet to work on this. Please."

Disappointed, Mulch stood aside, watching the funny-looking yellow man pace some more, his pen making quick scratches on his little pad of paper. Mulch looked over at the rodent and the long-armed cameraguy setting up around the creepily preserved example of _Muppeti quidquid,_ almost ran over to explain to them what he'd found, then thought better of it. He glanced at the translation he'd made of the inscription scroll found in the burial chamber of the mummified Muppet. _Thieves, beware!_ The reverential ancient Muppet tribe who'd laid this terrifying figure to rest had written: _This husk is sacred to the spirit of the great shaman Mookie-mookie, and any who disturb his sleep will pay with their lives! Robbers, tremble! Kings, bow down! Muppets thousands of years hence who open the tomb and put the body on display in some weird big cave with track lighting, beware the wrath of Mookie-mookie, and despair!_

Mulch trudged off in a snit. He'd _tried_ to read it to them. Some people simply had no comprehension of archaeological discovery! Maybe Van Neuter would listen. Stomping into the storage room full of preserved tapeworms, Mulch heard the vet humming happily to himself. Turning a corner in the labyrinth of shelves and crates, Mulch found his boss trimming the fringed tentacles of a large, restlessly seething jellyfish which appeared eager to burst free of its jar, and never mind the formaldehyde.

"Mulch! Just _look!_ Isn't it just the most _precious_ specimen of _Smuckerpisces uckie wuckie_ you have _ever—aaaiiiiiiigh!"_

Mulch frowned as the enormous and not-quite-dead jellyfish grabbed Van Neuter by the top of his head and slung him around the room. Again, just when Mulch had something _important_ to say! Van Neuter cried out, "Mulch! Hit it! Hit it silly! Make it put me dooooooowwwwnn!"

"Raffagah hungo moh frawh!" Mulch snarled, and angrily stomped off, the notes crumpled in his fist.

Behind him, Van Neuter yelled, "That is _so_ not true! It is _not_ always about me! Mulch! _Muuuuuulllch!"_

Two floors up, the Newsman prepared to give this ridiculous, cobbled-together report to the camera, checking his cuffs and tie and getting his focus as he stared into the steady red light just above the lens. _Gina loves me. I can run over to her theatre as soon as the news is done tonight. She loves me. She'll be waiting. Maybe Rhonda's right, and she'll be proud of – Did that claw just move?_ Startled, he stared at one of the smaller Muppasaurs, one of the vicious, chickenlike _Velocimuppets,_ almost certain he'd seen one of its hooked claws twitch. He almost spoke his fear aloud, then realized Rhonda would ridicule him. Ashamed, he returned his attention to the camera, and glanced at his notes while the rat gave him a quick countdown. He was jumpy and paranoid, justly so with Mother still around someplace. He wouldn't put it past her to use old bones to try and frighten him.

That thought made him screw up his courage, and straighten his broad shoulders, and look squarely into the camera with a determined, grim stare. "This is your Muppet Newsman, with a special report from the American Museum of Natural History. Stories of _curses_ have always fascinated the credulous…"

"Perfect," Rhonda whispered. She paid no attention to the soft clacking noises behind her except to wish that big blue guy had the common decency to be quiet while they were obviously filming…


	11. Chapter 11

Newsie wasn't at the apartment, although Gina found his bath towel still damp when she checked, and his clothing from this morning slung into the laundry hamper. So he _had_ gone to work. Trying to tell herself this was a good sign – certainly better than finding him still moping here, or worse, finding no signs of him at all – Gina scrubbed quickly in a cool shower to get the heat of the day off her body, and dressed in black tights and a black-lace-trimmed babydoll that fell just past mid-thigh. She did her best to put her uncooperative hair up in something resembling a formal bun; tiny wavelets dribbled out around the sides. _In this humidity, this is as formal as I get,_ she thought unhappily. At least the tech booth was air-conditioned. She studied herself in the mirror a moment. _Will Newsie like this?_ She shook her head, angry at herself. As if this was just another night! But all the same…before she ran out the door, she took a second to add the black-obsidian-crystal chandelier-drop earrings that she knew he admired, which did at least make the outfit a smidgen more dressy.

She only cared about what one particular person thought of how she looked. She could only hope he'd turn up as he'd agreed to.

 _Where is Mommy Dearest, anyway? Is she going to try to maim me again tonight? Maybe I should've brought the hemlock,_ Gina thought, regretting her lack of foresight. Exorcising the theatre sounded like a marvelously swell idea. She almost grinned to herself: _swell._ She was starting to _think_ like her old-school journalist… So many things she loved about him, out-of-style word usage included. Newsie was simply old-fashioned about a great many things… _Maybe I just overwhelmed him. Maybe he can't handle an adult relationship. Maybe he's had second thoughts all along?_ Worried, she wasn't looking as she ran through the lobby toward the lighting-booth stairs, and abruptly a fat suit blocked her way.

"Oh!...Paul," Gina muttered, glumly recognizing the large, bulbous lips, the flat nose, the huge round wet eyes of the show's producer. Ugly though he was, his impeccably tailored suit and polished shoes (was that eelskin?) smugly proclaimed _money, money, money._ She wondered what his cut of this charity event would be; she couldn't imagine him doing it out of the goodness of his tiny, cold heart. "Hi. Excuse me; have to do the light and sound checks." She really didn't want to have to try and squeeze past him; she had the distinct impression that to do so would get ooze on her dress.

Paul Grouper sucked in a breath, ogling her short dress and long legs. "Mith Brouthek. While I underthtand many, ahem, _artithtic_ types thuch as yourthelf _adore_ a more _wanton_ lifethtyle than I mythelf am uthed to," he leered, "I really have to take ithue with your latetht _thcandle."_

"Thcandle?" Gina demanded, glaring at him. "I mean – _what_ scandal?"

"Well…" Paul leaned in; trying not to openly grimace, Gina leaned away. "It wath brought to my attenthun earlier tonight that you have apparently been, thall we thay, _entwined_ with a member of the Muppeth, and –"

 _"_ _Entwined?"_ Gina repeated, rage rising immediately.

Paul frowned. "Ath much ath it is none of my bisneth what _thordid_ little things you _indulge_ in when in the _thecret_ privathy of your own _intimate_ domithile, thurely you mutht underthtand the _pothition_ I am in, and the harm which the thlightestht _whiff_ of thcandle could catht upon thith event –"

Gina restrained the urge to backhand the fishy producer. Barely. Suddenly she understood why Miss Piggy had perfected the karate chop. _"You,"_ she hissed, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, "can shut the hell up. _Now."_

Paul screwed up his fleshy lips, offended. _"Mith_ Brouthek! You will not take thuch a _tone_ with _me!_ I am the _produther_ of thith show!"

"You are a small-minded, lecherous, odious, greedy, grasping _parasite_ on what's supposed to be a good cause!" Gina snarled, startling the shorter man. "I've had _enough_ of people trying to turn up their noses at Newsie and me! _I love him,_ and I'm not ashamed of it! There is nothing _wrong_ or sick or bad about loving a Muppet!" she shouted, backing the producer against the nearest wall. Paul blinked his goggle-eyes at her, clearly astonished at being addressed in such violent terms. Gina took a deep breath, still struggling with a very strong desire to dump this horrible, leering lech into the sewer, and finished with a lunge-step at him that made him flinch: "So I don't care _what_ backwards little bog-town you crawled out of, do you get it? And you'd better get used to seeing people in relationships you don't approve of, because in case you didn't realize it, Fishy, you're in freakin' _New York!"_

Paul gaped at her, his large lips twisting wetly, soundlessly. Gina stomped again, making him fall back so she could storm past him without smearing her dress against his shiny suit. Two steps up the stairs, she heard him stutter imperiously: "Wh—I—I—I'll thust have you know, your behavior would _never_ be tolerated in Innthmouth! We uth _thivilized_ thpeech there!"

"Freakin' old-money New Englanders," Gina muttered, throwing open the booth door at the top of the thtairth –er, stairs – and slamming it shut behind her.

After the third giggle heard in passing, the Newsman felt the unpleasantly familiar certainty that he was being mocked behind his back. When he turned his head to look straight at the assistant news floor manager, she promptly quieted and pretended to be checking something on her clipboard – but even his poor peripheral vision caught _her_ assistant handing something off to someone else. Snapping his gaze that direction, Newsie glimpsed a folded newspaper before a crew member hurried away with it tucked under his arm. Newsie swallowed, ashamed without knowing why, and then swiftly grew irritated. "What's going on?" he asked the assistant floor manager.

She blinked blankly at him. "Firming up the story order, why? Did you have some changes you wanted to work in?"

"Uh…no. No, thank you," Newsie said, bemused. Maybe he was imagining things. After all, this was his workplace, not Mrs Kandinsky's homeroom class, and these were trained news professionals, not sixth-graders. Reminding himself he still had to view the final version of his special report in the editing room before they went live in twenty minutes, he turned and trotted down the hall away from the broadcast floor…and distinctly heard several more snickers and giggles.

His felt was burning as Rhonda met him at the door to the smaller of the two editing booths. "Hey, just in time! I got it all cued up and –"

"Is there anything I ought to know about?" Newsie demanded. Rhonda looked him up and down, blanched, and tried to smile innocently.

"Ah, no, a'course not! Here, Newsie; why don't ya come on in and we'll look at the final playback, and you can –"

"Why are people…laughing at me?" Newsie asked, studying the nervous rat suspiciously. "Rhonda, if there's some practical joke Fargo's pulled on me, you need to tell me!" He tried to glance over his shoulder at his back, failing. "Did he tape 'Noogie Me' to my coat again?"

"Ah, forget him, that overblown used-car salesman wannabe! Come on in here, Newsie; look, I got ya a fresh coffee and one of those fiber cereal bars you like, so you can just watch this and then relax until air time…" Rhonda pushed him into the booth, shutting the door hurriedly. Newsie looked at the refreshment laid out for him, and then realized no one else was present.

"Where's Tony?" he wondered. Slow though he was, their camerasloth was also their film editor much of the time, as the station didn't have the budget to hire another person or the time to pull the other techs away from their own assignments.

Rhonda sighed. "It's _Tom_ …forget it. Look, just put your feet up and tell me what you think, okay? It would be a delightful change to actually send a finished edit to the floor for air just once!" She put her paws on her tiny hips in the unmistakable I'm-getting-frustrated-will-you-please-just- _do_ -this posture he'd become perfectly familiar with in the past few months they'd been a team. Nodding, giving in, Newsie sat down, sipping the coffee, and halfheartedly unwrapped the snack while Rhonda settled herself on the desk right by the monitor. She tapped on the computer keyboard, and the digitized footage they'd shot this afternoon began playing back.

"This is your Muppet Newsman, with a special report…" his voice sounded over a shot of the creepy mummy. Newsie repressed a shudder, nearly plunging his nose into his "Donnie and Marie" coffee mug. The view cut back to his standup in front of the clear plexi-case housing the dead, dry thing. "Stories of _curses_ have always fascinated the credulous, and this museum has experienced its share of bizarre legends throughout the years: mummy cases in the Egypt room moving after hours, noises heard by guards in vacant wings… Now two new, unusual events have befallen people connected with the new Muppet Natural History Exhibit scheduled to open tomorrow morning right here." Newsie tried to relax; he felt reasonably proud of his on-the-spot writing for this piece.

Rhonda paused the playback. "See? That's great, what you did there! _Suggesting_ a link to the curse without actually saying there _is_ one!"

"What curse?" Newsie grumbled, taking a bite of the fiber bar. "This whole angle is ridiculous!"

"It's genius, and _we_ thought of it," Rhonda argued. Only slightly mollified by her including him in the credit, Newsie sipped more of the coffee and waited. Playback resumed, with headshots of the two unavailable experts.

Newsie's voiceover stated: "The Paleomuppetology consultant for the exhibit, Dr Bennigan Fargo, came down with a severe case of green fur flu after seeing to the shipping of numerous rare Muppet fossils from Texas and Mississippi." Newsie flinched at the next shot: some…person…in a hospital isolation tent; frothy green fur and clamping, chomping, clamshell lips could barely be seen pressed against the plastic sheeting for an instant before orderlies wrestled the…whatever it was…back into its bed. Newsie stared at Rhonda in shock.

The rat grinned. _"Fantastic,_ isn't it? I got Murray to slip me that outta the green fur flu epidemic report that Jerry's doing tonight. Should be a nice bump for both stories!"

"What _is_ that?" the Newsman asked.

 _"_ _That_ was our Muppasaur expert. Direct to the viewers from Bellevue!" Rhonda squeaked triumphantly. Shaken, Newsie simply held onto his mug. Rhonda sighed. "Goldie. Baby. Crazy _sells._ Trust the rat, okay?" Shaking her head at her correspondent's queasiness, Rhonda resumed the playback once more.

"The other professional who donated both exhibits and expertise to the museum for this show, Dr Abercrombie Fish, has not been heard of since his small Cessna plane was lost over the Pacific two days ago," the Newsman's voiceover continued. "Dr Fish had been en route from Iowa; aviation authorities say Fish and his pilot had not filed any flight plans for an oceanic route and have no answer as to why the plane was so far off course. The New Guinean Coast Guard is still searching for possible wreckage." The images shifted from a still of Dr Fish, a kindly-looking old mackerel in khakis, to amateur footage of the professor on a recent dig in New Brunswick, and then to aerial shots of the ocean, and finally a few pigs with bones through their nostrils plying the dark water with flashlights and stick-nets from dugout canoes.

Newsie had to admit he was impressed. "Where'd you get all the footage?" he asked.

"Am I your reports editor, producer, director, and overall star researcher, or what?" Rhonda demanded smugly. Nodding at her, the Newsman realized how lucky he was to have the seasoned pro working with him.

"Very nice," he told her, and she beamed.

"Not so bad yourself," she replied. "Keep watching, sunshine."

Forgetting about his mother for the first time in two days, Newsie relaxed a bit in his chair, chewed on the fiber bar, and kept an objective eye on the monitor. The camera cut back to him in the museum, slowly walking between some of the smaller Muppasaurs, and Newsie noted how the camera's light threw long, stark shadows behind him and the skeletons. Creepy…and effective. On the footage, he addressed the camera seriously: "While there is clearly _no_ connection between these unusual tragedies, their mere association with ancient Muppets will no doubt stir up more of the ever-popular superstitions about mummies, curses, and forces beyond the measurable world." Newsie started, jerking upright in his seat, seeing movement where there shouldn't be any. On the film, he finished, standing directly in front of the enormous _M. Tex_ claw clutching the _Velocimuppet_ skeleton: "For KRAK Big Apple News, at the Museum of Natural History, I'm the Newsman."

"What was that? Rewind it!" Newsie said, pointing a shaking finger at the screen.

"Uh, that would be _you_ in front of a bunch of mounted bones," Rhonda said, puzzled. "What are you talking about?"

"Go back! Go back! Look, there! Right…right behind me…do you see that?" Newsie gulped, pointing as Rhonda backtracked the footage several frames to the point where Newsie was walking through the exhibit. She shrugged.

"I see bones, bones, and more bones. What the heck, Newsie?"

"Slow it down," he demanded, not knowing which keys to tap himself. "Play it back! Watch!" Confused, Rhonda obliged him. They watched as, in slo-mo, the Newsman strolled around one of the bovine fossils. "There! What was that? It moved! Rhonda, that thing _moved!"_

She peered closely at it, bumping up the magnification. "Uh…Newsie…that's your shadow crossing the bottom of the display. Tommy had your lighting cranked on high power to give it some cool shadows. Relax."

"Not _that,"_ he growled, tapping the monitor impatiently in a different area. _"That!"_

Rhonda played it back once more, slowly, and this time she saw it: just after Newsie passed by one of the _Velocimuppets,_ it appeared to tilt its turkeylike head… ever…so…slightly. "That's…that's just a trick of the light," Rhonda guessed, eyes widening. "A bad angle! Newsie…those things are _dead._ You're seeing things!"

 _"_ _Tell_ me you didn't see it too," Newsie insisted, glaring at her, shivering.

The rat gulped, but met his sharp gaze. "Uh…I didn't see it too. Come on, how could a dead, mounted skeleton actually move? Maybe…maybe it was that kook of a curator messing with us! He looked like the type to rig up a corpse for a laugh…"

"Van Neuter wasn't anywhere around!"

"But his assistant was," Rhonda pointed out. "Now…now come on! You're gonna give _me_ the creeps! Knock it off!"

"It moved," Newsie insisted, drawing away from the screen. Had that thing been… _watching_ him…the whole time they were filming? Looking for an opportunity to get him alone, waiting to strike? "I…I read," Newsie gulped nervously, "their claws could disembowel larger prey in seconds…and they think the things hunted in flocks…"

"Okay _stop it!"_ Rhonda squeaked, clapping her hands over her ears. "Just quit it! I don't wanna hear it! It was…it was just a trick of the light, or the camera, or that pair of psycho scientists in charge, okay? Enough! In case you've forgotten, we _do_ have to be back there at the opening to cover the event all day!"

Sobered, Newsie drew his hands over his chest anxiously. "Rhonda…what…what if I'm not?" He looked at her, frightened, and she gazed back, worried. "What if Death decides to drag me away with my mother? What if…what if he takes Gina?"

"Newsie," the rat said softly, putting a paw on his hand, "that's not gonna happen. That's gotta be against the rules or something! You're alive, she's alive, you're both healthy, I'm sure you can't be dragged away if it's not, uh, not your time yet! Look…he showed up before breakfast, right?" Newsie nodded. "So…tomorrow when he shows up again, you just stand tall and tell him you're not going, and you're not going to let him take the woman you love, either!"

The Newsman swallowed hard, blinking back wetness at the corners of his eyes. "Why would he listen to me? He's…he's the Grim Reaper, Rhonda! The End! The tall scary guy with the scythe!"

Rhonda exhaled loudly, whiskers twitching. She added her other paw to his hand, coaxing him to stop clenching his fingers together and take her tiny ones in his own. "And _you_ are the one and only Muppet Newsman. You're the only one of us with a nose for news and the perseverance to keep doing that job year after year! So you…you stand tall. You tell that big scary guy to lay off already! 'Cause _we_ need you here, and Gina needs you, too."

Newsie tried hard not to sniffle, but his nose was already clogging, as it usually did when he became upset. Stupid long sinuses… Rhonda smiled lopsidedly at him, showing her tiny sharp teeth, then handed him a tissue. Nodding thanks brusquely at her, Newsie honked loudly into the tissue, and then another two after that. Rhonda sighed and thumped the whole box in front of him. "Pull it together, we go live in five," she said, checking her watch. "I'm gonna run this to the control guys. Hustle, Goldie!"

Yanking a flash drive from the computer, the rat jumped from the desk and scurried out of the booth, leaving the door open a crack. The Newsman wiped his eyes, his glasses, and his nose once more, then checked his clothing, smoothing down his jacket as he slid from the seat. _Well, she's still calling you names, but at least she backs you up,_ he thought. Differentiating between good-natured insults and real ones was still a new concept to him; previously, they'd _all_ been hurtful. Mastering his composure, he pushed open the editing booth door…and several conversations suddenly paused. Uncomfortably, the Newsman looked around; a number of taller people began small talk or discussions of tonight's show which sounded somehow false to him. Blushing angrily, he trotted past them all, heading for the news set. _What the hey? It has to be Fargo! Why is he so vicious? I'm not after his job! I like being in the field!_ He only wanted an anchor position if he could also do live reports from other sites, like Peter Jennings had so wonderfully done. Besides, it wasn't as if the studio was any _safer_ than a war zone, in Newsie's case…even here, things still fell on him. One day last month, there had been a freak hailstorm in July… _inside_ the news studio. Over _his_ side of the long news set desk. _All right, that is IT! Gina was right…I need to stand up for myself more! She thinks I'm worth something…heck, even the rat seems to think so as well! I'll just march right up to Bart Fargo, star anchor, and I'll tell him…I'll tell him…_

"Hey, shrimp!" the anchorman said, laughing, leaning down right in the Newsman's face. Newsie was so flustered he _almost_ snapped back _That's King Prawn!_ Startled, he fell back a step, looking up. Fargo smiled, his perfect pearly whites gleaming. "We're supposed to _present_ the headlines, not _make_ them!"

"What are you babbling about?" Newsie growled, glowering.

Fargo snapped open a newspaper. Newsie only glimpsed a picture of a couple embracing before a flying rat tackled the paper from Fargo's grip. "Aaaaah!" Rhonda shrieked, ripping the cheap newsprint to shreds and frantically stuffing the pieces into her mouth. As Newsie and Fargo and everyone else around stared in astonishment, Rhonda snapped and gulped and swallowed the entire front page. She grabbed Newsie's hand, tugging him after her. "Come on! Get on set! It's time!"

"But – but – what –"

"Straighten up! Face front! Head up!" the rat squeaked shrilly, and Newsie obeyed instinctively. He noticed the director counting down. Fargo raced past, settling smoothly into his chair up front without another look at Newsie while the theme music washed over them. He smiled for the camera; bewildered, Newsie simply stared at the lens when his own name was announced for the opening. Rhonda sighed, slumping off to the side, stifling a belch. As Fargo launched straight into the lead story, something about the horrible refugee crisis in Somalia, the Newsman tried to pay attention, but kept glancing at Rhonda, who was panting and looked ill.

"What was all that?" he whispered to her.

"Ohhhh I _hate_ carbon ink," Rhonda groaned softly.

"Psst! Why did you do that?" he tried again.

"Shh!" the floor manager cautioned him. Newsie fell silent, but kept shooting confused looks at his reports director. _What the hey? Why would she eat a headline? Why would Fargo shove one in my face? What could possibly…_

Marcie Yung suddenly crouched by his chair, sweeping her skirt-hem away from the floor so he had a revealing view of her tanned thighs. "Want to offer a comment tonight? Air your side of the story?" she whispered, eyes gleaming at him.

Completely flustered, Newsie forced his eyes upward to meet hers. "Er! Uh…what?"

"The whole Muppet discriminatory thing. I think that's a great angle to work, stir up some civil rights issues, that sort of thing," Yung offered, and apparently mistook his utter bafflement for reluctance. "I mean…you know. If you feel up to commenting on it. I understand if you're too broken up right now." She gave him a sympathetic frown.

Newsie stared at her. "What are you _talking_ about?"

"Shhhhh!" the floor manager hissed.

Realization dawned, and Marcie put a hand to her perfectly-glossed lips. He had no idea why she was even talking to him; as the entertainment and gossip branch of the news team, their paths rarely crossed. "Oh, no. You, uh, you haven't even _heard_ yet?"

Frustrated, Newsie jumped from his chair and hurried a little farther from the news set; it would be a few minutes and at least one commercial break before they reached the Muppet News segment. "Heard _what?"_ he demanded. The pretty young celebrity-news reporter seemed dismayed, but then looked around, and gestured for something from one of the staffers just behind the cameras.

Rhonda looked over just in time to see that dratted gossip-spreader Marcie handing a copy of the late edition of the _Daily Scandal_ to the Newsman. "Oh, noooo," she groaned, and shoved her unhappy body into motion to try and stop the inevitable.

The headline on the front page read: _SECONDHAND NEWSMAN! Muppet Reporter Dumped for Tall, Hunky Human! Muppet Community Outraged at Sexual Discrimination by Former Paramour of Once-Famous Journalist!_

The photo showed Gina…unmistakably, beautifully Gina…dipped in an embrace by her friend Scott. They were about to kiss…or perhaps had _just_ kissed.

Newsie froze.

Rhonda reached him. "Newsie! Newsie, c'mon, it's the _Scandal!_ That's Scribbler's byline! You know it can't possibly – you know she'd _never—"_

"She…she…" Newsie choked. "Oh, _Gina!"_

He held the paper tightly in both hands, staring at the photo. Yes, he knew d—d well Scribbler's propensity to twist the truth…but…but…that _photo!_ _That_ didn't look faked! Newsie groaned; several people swung around to watch, but he didn't even register them, focused on that awful, terrible, _real_ photograph.

"I told you so," his mother said primly. Squeals and stunned gasps flew through the studio as everyone reacted to the sudden appearance of the spectre next to her son.

Newsie couldn't even be surprised, too overwhelmed by what he saw in terrible black-and-white clarity. His shaking hand found the arm of someone's chair. Rhonda tried to get his attention. "Newsie! Stop! To heck with Scribbler, to heck with this…this crazy old gray hag! Gina would _never_ cheat on you! It _has_ to be rigged!"

"Get away from him, filthy rodent!" Mrs Crimp snapped, kicking the rat aside roughly. She leaned close to the Newsman, who trembled violently, the ghost's cold breath nothing next to the shock coursing through him already. "I told you you'd regret it, you disbelieving little fool! I _told_ you she was no good!"

Sickened, Newsie staggered away from her, away from them all, all the stares, all the whispers, still clutching the newspaper. As Rhonda righted herself, shivering, the Newsman headed for the hallway, for the building's lobby, gaining speed as he went. The director, irritated and bewildered, called for a commercial cut a second before the smug ghost yelled after the Newsman: "You should have listened to your _motherrrrr!"_

"That's her! I swear it's her!"

Gina usually ignored the audience right below the booth, focused on her work, which at the moment was simply keeping an eye on the banks of dimmers to make sure the one which had been giving them trouble earlier that week was indeed fixed as her electrician had promised. So far she'd seen nothing wrong; the lighting check was done, the sound check had been uneventful, and the house had only just opened. She was sitting tensely, waiting in the darkened tech booth, ready to execute her own lighting cues as they didn't have an actual stage manager for this show. Overlaid on her normal show-anxiety was the fear that showtime would arrive, and her Newsman would not.

"Lookit, I got the paper right here," the voice whispered loudly. Annoyed, Gina flicked her eyes to the long window overlooking the stage; the back row of the audience was right beneath it, and anyone standing up would just barely be able to see in. Two people, a young man and woman, craned their necks to look inside. Sighing to herself, Gina pointedly ignored them. _Couple of looky-loos who just have to see what's in the big dark room up there,_ she thought. She expected that kind of thing from little kids, but these two looked college-age; too old to be pointing and staring at…her.

Why were they pointing at _her?_

 _Oh, crud. Scribbler!_

She shot a glare at the gapers, and they giggled and sat down out of sight. _Oh, wonderful. This has to be about that d—d scandalmonger! Wait…scandal…was THAT what Paul was leering about earlier? Oh, God…_ Humiliated, she pressed her thumbs into her weary eyesockets briefly. _Oh, no. What did that little weasel print? What if Newsie…oh no!_ As upset as he'd been this morning, surely that kind of harassment would make him seriously ill. Hating the necessity of it, disregarding all protocol, Gina reached for the booth phone and punched in Newsie's cell number. Of course, it went right to his uncertain, gruff voicemail message: "Uh…erm…please leave a message, and I'll get back to you. Uh, how was that?" _Beep._

Either his phone was off, or he'd forgotten it at home again. Desperately Gina left a message just in case: "Newsie…when you get this… _call me._ No – come _see me!_ I love you. Whatever you've heard, it's not true! I love you!" Hanging up, she heard snickering outside the booth again. Disgusted, she paced a minute, wondering where her sensitive journalist was, and whether he'd seen the ridiculous photo that hack Scribbler had snapped. _When I find that little piece of trash…oh, hanging's too good for that scrawny neck! I'll tie him to the New Year's ball rig in Times Square and have them run him up and down it every day!_ She checked the clock: still twenty minutes to curtain. The house was only about a third full, but typically donors liked to arrive late, so she wasn't concerned yet about the success of the show. Maybe she could send Alan over to the KRAK studios? Deciding that was as good an idea as anything else she could do right now, Gina left the booth to find her assistant, wishing she had a gofer as dependable here as Kermit did over at the Muppet Theatre.

She hoped none of _them_ would believe anything under the byline of one Fleet Scribbler.

Scott was checking out the crowd from just inside the house doors; he saw a large number of expensive-looking dresses and suits in the audience, a good sign. Last-minute panic attacks from one of the acrobats, a faulty headset in the box office, and that strange magician insisting he'd left his silk tophat around here _somewhere_ had all been dealt with, fixed, calmed, done and ready for the night ahead. The wooden comedians had been rehearsing constantly backstage, the steel drums sounded tuned and pretty – even if their player still looked a little rabbity – and some smarmy lounge singer who pouted about his name being misspelled as "Dwayne" had been charmed into staying for his performance with the promise of the phone number of one of the female ushers. In short, all was well and ready to go.

A murmur ran through the crowd in the lobby. Scott turned, wondering if some big-name celebrity had shown up. Instead, he saw the Muppet Newsman. Scott started to grin and hold up a hand in a wave…then saw the red-rimmed eyes behind those hornrimmed glasses, and the ragged paper clenched in one yellow fist. Concerned, Scott strode toward the reporter, but before he could ask what was wrong, the Muppet reached forward and shoved him, hard.

Scott instinctively braced his feet, but the Newsman wasn't tall or strong enough to push him back. "How…how could you!" Newsie choked, his voice rougher than normal. "How _could you!"_

"What the heck?" Scott asked.

Newsie smacked Scott with the crumpled paper he held. "Gina! I thought she…I thought you…I thought you were only _friends!"_ he cried, anguished. _"WHY would you do this!"_

"Wait, wait!" Scott responded, deep voice raised. Everyone in the lobby was staring at them, and the people just within the audience doors peered out to see what the commotion was about.

 _"_ _I love her!"_ Newsie yelled at the top of his lungs, waving the paper at Scott, straining on tiptoe to reach up as high as he could…roughly around Scott's chest. "Did you think I wasn't serious? Did you think I wouldn't find out? Did you think it wouldn't matter because _I'm a Muppet?"_ Dumbfounded, Scott put a hand out to stop the raging, grieving Newsman, but Newsie swatted it away roughly. "How could you…how could you _do_ this…Gina…oh, Gina…" He broke into loud sobs.

Scott suddenly remembered that skinny guy snapping stupid photos earlier, and how seriously Gina had taken it. "Oh, man. Hey, wait, Newsie, wait, look –"

"Don't you call me that! We're _not_ friends!" Newsie shouted. Stricken, he stared up at the taller man, then pointed a shaking finger at him. "We…you made me think…you _lied to me!"_ Gasping, he seemed suddenly to lose all momentum, sagging at the knees. "You…you tell her…if she wants you instead…you tell her…tell her…"

"Newsie? Oh, no. Newsie!"

Gina leaped down the last few steps, already reaching for her wounded Newsman, but he jerked away, stumbling, grabbing one of the velvet ropes separating the ticket line from the house doors to keep from collapsing. "Newsie! It's not true! Whatever Scribbler said, it's _not true!"_ Gina exclaimed, horrified to see him pulling away from her.

"I saw…I saw the photo," Newsie gasped. "That said enough!"

"Newsie!" Gina protested, reaching for him again; again, he flinched. "No, no, Newsie, please…how could you think I'd ever do that? I love you!"

"Man, it's not what it looked like," Scott agreed. "I'd never mess with you two! You're good for each other, and I wouldn't –"

"You kissed her," Newsie accused him; swinging around to gaze hopelessly at his beloved, he said weakly, "You…you kissed him…"

 _"_ _No!_ No, Newsie, I didn't! Whatever you saw, it was a set-up!" Desperately, Gina tried to embrace him, but as soon as her hands touched him, the Newsman groaned and pulled away, staggering back into the center of the lobby; the crowd, larger now, stared, murmured, some laughing, some bewildered, some offended by the very public scene. "How could you _ever_ think I'd cheat on you? _Aloysius!"_ Gina cried, again trying to catch his arm. Newsie cringed at his true name, ducked under the ropes, stared at her with tears streaming down his face a moment, and then fled, stumbling, bouncing off of people and the front doors before nearly falling down the stairs outside.

"Oh, God," Gina groaned, crying as well now. Grimly Scott saw Paul Grouper heading for them, attracted by all the shouting. He shoved Gina toward the theatre's main entrance.

"Go. Go! I'll run the board. Tell him I'm sorry it even _looked_ like that. Just go!" he bellowed, and Gina didn't look back. But although she flew down the stairs, when she reached the street and cast desperate looks in every direction, there was no short golden Muppet to be found.

Wiping her eyes with her dress hem, not caring how many people noticed and stared, Gina stood anxiously a split second, thinking fast. _The apartment? No. Grand Central? No…then there's only one place he would go._

Hoping she hadn't guessed incorrectly, Gina took off at a dead run in the direction of the Muppet Theatre. If she was wrong…she might never see her sweet Newsman again.


	12. Chapter 12

Kermit hadn't a clue which way to turn next. Screams from the audience, shouts from the green room, panic, chaos! "Scooter!" he yelled as his second-in-command ran past.

"Hang on, chief! Animal's got Mrs Van Der Snide cornered in the ladies' room!" Scooter yelled back, yanking open the door to the hall which led front-of-house.

"Oh good grief," the frog groaned. A familiar war cry made him turn.

 _"_ _Hiiiiiii-yaaaah!"_ One of the stagepigs, a burly porker now sporting green tufts of fur in his ears and nostrils, sailed past and crashed headfirst into a wall; a puff of mortar dusted down on top of him. Miss Piggy brushed off her gloves before smoothing back her glossy locks. "And keep your grubby green paws off me, buster!"

"Piggy! Are you okay?" Kermit asked, worried, but his darling showed no sign of contagion.

"Kermie!" She rushed to him, enfolding him in a concerned embrace. "Oh, I was terrified you'd been hurt by one of these…these…sick people!"

Relieved to see her unharmed, but feeling a little compressed, Kermit wriggled free, taking her by the hands instead. "So far, so good," he replied, then shook his head as Zoot, his stringy hair now green instead of blue, wandered past in a daze, touching his shell-like lower lip in disbelief. "Sheesh…relatively speaking, I mean," Kermit amended.

The night hadn't _started_ this crazily. It had been a decent enough house, and even a good guest star lined up – the newly popular Carrie Louise, of talent show fame. Then the timid girl had called at ten minutes to curtain to say she was too afraid of the green fur flu to keep her commitment to the show. Animal had been ill in the scrubby weeds out by the loading dock, and though Floyd insisted it was only from too many tacos with Yo'Mama Sauce, during the opening theme, the drummer's fluffy head of red hair suddenly turned green. Things quickly went downhill after that…

Piggy sniffed contemptuously, glaring at the hog she'd felled. "What is _wrong_ with all these weirdos tonight?"

"I…I think it's that green fur flu," Kermit said. He allowed Piggy to grab him by the waist and sweep him to one side as Dr Teeth came howling up the stairs, pulling at the fur sprouting out of his chin like a vegetative beard, his eyes rolling in terror. "Ack! It…it…seems to make people go crazy if they catch it," Kermit explained.

At that moment, Animal came loping across the stage, a shrieking, shaking, well-bosomed old dowager in a ripped dress which exposed her Victorian-style corset slung firmly over his shoulder. He paused only a second to grin at Kermit and Piggy. _"Hah-hah-hah!_ Wo-man!"

As the green drummer carried off his protesting prize, Piggy gave Kermit a deadpan look. "How can you tell?"

Scooter and Floyd raced past, Scooter loading up the tranquilizer rifle as they went. "Hey, Animal! Animal! Come on, man! She's not your type!" Floyd yelled after the drummer. The two ran out the back door the way Animal had fled.

"This is madness!" Kermit wailed. He ventured a look around the proscenium into the audience. Various green-furred…people…thrashed and howled among the rapidly-emptying seats. "What are we going to do?"

"Did you call the CDC?" Piggy offered. "I have my cell phone on me."

"May as well," Kermit agreed, and Piggy pulled out the phone and dialed quickly. Janice hurried by, ushering a bunch of chickens before her.

"Like, up there! I think we'll be safer if we all go roost," the guitarist said, the chickens bawking in agreement, outrage, or terror; it was hard to tell. All of them flew or climbed into the fly loft, where they clung to the railing and peered down at the carnage.

"Yes! Atlanta, please," Piggy said sweetly into the phone. _"Merci."_

"I hope frogs can't catch it," Kermit sighed. "I'd look terrible in fur!"

None of them noticed the Newsman coming in the back door. The noises and frantic atmosphere, in return, went largely unregistered by him. This place _always_ suffered from some sort of weirdness. Sucking back his sobs, blinking blurred eyes, he went straight for the lower staircase, but just as he reached it, a green-furred, snap-jawed thing in a white chef's hat staggered up the stairs, wobbling past him. "Furrren der bol der clumpy-clumpy!" the thing complained to him as it went.

Startled, Newsie paused finally to stare at the activity backstage. Kermit and Piggy alone, embracing over by the stage manager's desk, seemed untouched by the chaos. Everywhere else he could see, Muppets either ran away from the various weaving, flailing, green-furred creatures, or toward them with large nets or Tasers. _What the HEY?_ Newsie dodged another creature, shaken when he recognized the gold tooth and feathered hat it sported. "Dr Teeth? What on earth?"

Kermit spotted him. "Newsman! I thought you were off tonight for that charity show?"

"I…I…" Newsie gulped.

Piggy snapped into the phone, _"Yes_ I'm sure that's what it is! Do clamshell lips and ugly Astroturf all over sound like chicken pox to _you?"_

"Well, as long as you're here, do something!" Kermit pleaded. He shuddered, taken aback, as Zoot stopped right in front of him, opening his clammy jaws soundlessly, then removing his hat to tentatively touch the green, wavy fur cascading into his eyes. "Eeesh! Can you – can you call your news station, at least? I'm sure they have some pull with the local hospitals! We need help!"

Zoot approached the Newsman, lifting arms which looked a great deal more furry than they had moments before, and Newsie, overwhelmed, fled down the stairs. "Oh good grief," Kermit groaned.

"Don't worry, Kermit! I'll save you!" Beauregard called, rushing the sax player, brandishing a push-broom. "Hey, you! You leave these un-sick people alone!"

Zoot, displaying faster reflexes than Kermit had ever seen from the languid musician, grabbed the broom-handle and bit it in half. Piggy froze, then drew Kermit a few steps back with her. "Never mind the HAZMAT team," she muttered at the phone, "Send the Marines!"

Zoot and Beau stared at the broken broom. Desperately, Beau jabbed the stick at Zoot; suddenly enraged, the green fur flu taking over, Zoot snarled and yanked the stick from the janitor's hands. Beau ran, yelping, and the furry monster bounded after him, waving the stick. Kermit shoved Piggy toward the back door. "Piggy – just get out of here! Run!" he shouted.

"But Mon Capitan-!"

"Out! Out! Go! Now!"

Piggy looked from her poor frog to the monsters in the audience, all beginning to turn toward the stage, the audience completely vanished, although whether more had gone out the door or joined the green ranks was impossible to determine. Biting her lip, Piggy pointed out the encroaching hordes. "But…but…"

Kermit saw them, and with a gulp, gathered his strength and sprang up into the storage loft above stage right. "Go! I'll be fine!" he yelled at her. "Hopefully they can't climb…"

Piggy pursed her lips, proud of her frog, determined to assist. "Then be safe, my dear one! I'll be back – with an army if I have to!" Turning to leave, she ran into the babbling, groaning, green Chef. "Aaaagh! Outta my way, you green egg-and-ham! Hiii- _yahh!"_ With the monster dispatched, she trotted out the back door in search of help.

Newsie sprinted around a drooling, gibbering thing in the center of the suddenly-appropriately-named green room. It caught his arm before he was far enough away, jerking him back so hard he almost fell. "Aaaagh!"

 _"_ _Look_ at me!" the thing moaned, patting the fur coming out of its wide nostrils like whiskers gone horribly wrong. "What am I going to _do?_ I had a commercial shoot for hair gel tomorrow!"

"L-Link?" Newsie gaped, stunned. Then he yanked his arm free. "Let go of me!"

The afflicted hog turned away, hands to his face, bewailing his transformation. Newsie reached the door to his dressing-room, but it seemed stuck. He pulled hard on the handle, and heard squeaks coming from beyond it. "Hey!" he yelled, and pounded the door with a fist. "That's _my_ room! Let me in!"

"No way! We were here first! Get your own hiding-place!" Rizzo shouted back.

Angrily, Newsie got a good grip with both hands, braced himself, and yanked as strongly as he could; the door flew open, a group of rats tumbling out. They squeaked and shrieked and scurried back inside the dressing-room. Newsie jumped in after them, slamming the door before what appeared to be a girl Muppet with wide eyes and long green fur could wander in as well. He heard her break into song: "Ohhhhh I said Doctor! Mister MD! Oh, can you tellll meeeee…what's ailing meeee…"

"Good love ain't gonna cure _dat!"_ Rizzo exclaimed. He looked the Newsman over sharply. "You're not feelin' sick or anything, are ya?"

"I'm fine!" Newsie snapped, backing away from the door as the rats produced a tiny hammer and nails from somewhere and started securing a cross-brace ripped from the wall across the door to prevent any more intrusions. Newsie dropped into his lone chair, heart stuttering, gasping. He'd run all the way here, and now _this!_ "I'm…I'm fine…really…"

The rats swung around to stare at him as he burst into fresh sobs.

"Hey…okay, it's like Resident Weevil out there, but geez! Pull it together!" Rizzo urged him.

"Leave me alone," Newsie cried. Ashamed, he pulled off his glasses, bent over, his hands covering his eyes. "Just…just leave me alone…"

The rats exchanged looks. Something tried to pull on the door, and most of the rodents leaped onto the board, holding the door shut at the jambs with their entire bodies. Rizzo approached Newsie cautiously. "Uh…what's wrong, Newsie? Other than the obvious, I mean."

"G-Gina…" He couldn't speak. He didn't _want_ to speak. Blinking down at the rat, Newsie lifted one trembling hand, fumbling the crumpled gossip sheet from a pocket. Rizzo took the article, frowning.

"'Impotent Impresario Demands Paternity Re-test'?" Rizzo read aloud, puzzled.

Angrily, Newsie grabbed the paper and flipped it over, shoving it back at the rat. "No!" As Rizzo stared in shock at the photo, Newsie glared, wiping his face with his already-damp handkerchief. "Any jokes you want to make at my expense? Go ahead! I'll – I'll throw you to the green things!"

"Oh, geez, Newsie," the rat sighed, shaking his head. He looked up at the stricken reporter with sympathetic eyes. "Oh, man. I can't believe it!"

Newsie gulped, tears beginning anew, and wrapped his arms around his stomach. He wanted to be ill, but his throat was too dry and raw to produce anything. Rizzo kept shaking his head. "Oh, man. Dis can't be true! Gina wouldn't step out on you! Come on, you know dis rag, dey print da dumbest t'ings! Come on, Newsie…" Awkwardly, he patted the journalist's knee.

"I thought…I thought she loved me," Newsie moaned, bent over, his voice thick with sorrow.

"You should have listened to me!" a grating voice proclaimed.

All the rats screamed, leaping away from the grey, chill, imperious matron suddenly standing next to the Newsman. He shivered, refusing to look at her. "Do you see now? You should have remembered that _I_ am an excellent judge of character, Aloysius, whereas _you_ would trust anyone who gives you the time of day!" Mrs Crimp snapped. She noticed the rats. "Aaagh! Rodents! Shoo! Shoo, you nasty things!" She produced a phantom broom from nowhere, sweeping it at the rats.

"The flusome or the gruesome?" a rat asked, casting terrified looks from the door to the ghost.

"Tink I'd rather take my chances out dere!" Rizzo cried, yanking desperately at the board nailing the door shut. "Lemme out!"

Mrs Crimp grimaced as the rats managed to pull the door open and flee. "Disgusting! And you _work_ here? Does the Health Department know about this?"

"Mother, please go away," Newsie begged, looking up at her with wet, reddened eyes. "Please!"

"Oh, I certainly will! But so will you, Aloysius! Now come along!" She fastened cold fingers over his shirt-collar, but Newsie jerked away, trembling.

"N-no! Never! Leave me alone!" he shouted, jumping from his chair, throwing himself backwards against the wall of the tight little room. His mother frowned.

She waggled a finger in his face. "You brought this on yourself! Cavorting shamelessly with that horrible slu—"

 _"_ _Stop it!"_ Newsie cried, slapping her finger aside. "Go away!"

Insulted, his mother expanded, growing larger-than-life, leaning over him. "Don't you _dare_ speak to your mother that way, young man! You _will_ come home with me, right this instant!"

"No! _No!"_ Newsie dove past her, rolling into the green room through the busted dressing-room door. No sooner had he picked himself up than she was grabbing him by the scruff of his jacket like a furious mother cat with a disobedient kitten. "Let me go!" he cried, kicking, feeling his feet leave the floor.

 _"_ _Enough!"_ a voice thundered. Mrs Crimp paused, looking around; Newsie struggled but couldn't break free of her grip. The back of his neck was starting to go numb, freezing.

A dark blue dragon in tattered eveningwear with flashing eyes materialized before the large grey ghost. _"This is MY theatre! You may not haunt here!"_ Uncle Deadly proclaimed. Even the green-furred Muppets remaining downstairs backed away from the angry Phantom of the Muppet Theatre.

"This is _my son!_ And I'll discipline him as I see fit!" Mrs Crimp argued, drawing Newsie closer to her. He gasped, shuddering, the cold radiating from her striking him sharply. Frantically he tried to push himself away from her, his fingers rapidly losing all sensation.

"You will harm _no_ member of this company – including him!" Deadly stated, moving closer, gathering his arms inward as though he planned to pounce upon the rival ghost. "All are under _my_ protection!"

"And what are _you?"_ Mrs Crimp sneered. "A freak! It's no wonder my boy can't tell right from wrong anymore, exposed to the likes of you!"

 _"_ _Begone, vicious hag!"_ Deadly commanded, throwing both arms out before him. Mrs Crimp fell back a step, startled, then glowered at the dragon.

"How _dare_ you, you little…you little…"

"Let _go!"_ Kicking hard against his mother's midsection, Newsie at last regained his freedom, falling forward to the green room floor, gasping. At once Deadly stepped between him and Mrs Crimp, toothy lips upturned in a confident smile. Newsie stared up at them, frightened, shaking all over. _Why_ couldn't she just leave him alone? Especially now! And why was the dragon-thing helping him? They'd never even spoken – and didn't the ragged phantom qualify as a monster? Why would a monster defend him? Trying to crawl out of range of them both, he kept staring at them, short of breath, feeling his heart trying to keep up with his racing thoughts.

"Whatever you are, you should know better than to come between a mother and her child!" Mrs Crimp snarled, rolling up the sleeves of her housedress.

"And _you_ ought to be more conversant with the rules of haunting!" Uncle Deadly shot back. They circled one another, glaring. "Don't they teach anything at the school for ugly old ex-crones anymore?"

"Ex-crone!" Mrs Crimp cried angrily. "That's enough out of you, you impertinent little –"

"Fire, Beakie! Fire!"

With a yell of meep, Beaker opened fire with the spectral electron-disrupting anti-Muppaspectre beam-thrower. The blue plasma beam whipped wildly into the ceiling, the kick from the gun catching the unbraced Beaker off-guard again. Startled, Mrs Crimp ducked, abruptly shrinking back to her pre-death size, as the dancing beam lashed over her head. "That's it, Beaker! Don't let her get away!" Bunsen shouted. Beaker stumbled across the room, failing in his attempts to wrest the gun under control.

Mrs Crimp gaped at the scientists. "Freaks and crazies," she muttered. "Nothing here but freaks and crazies!"

Deadly's gaze darted from the wildly shooting beams to the distracted invading revenant. Triumphantly, he gathered his energy and shoved _hard._ Shrieking, Mrs Crimp flew through the outer wall of the theatre. "And _stay_ out!" the dragon crowed.

He dusted off his hands as Bunsen grabbed the beam-thrower alongside his associate, the two of them together managing finally to turn it off. Blue smoke wafted from the ceiling and walls where the electron disruptor had cut through the atomic structure of the building. Beaker put one hand to his mouth, staring at the damage. "Meep…"

"Nice shooting, Tex!" Deadly congratulated Beaker, his dramatic tone sounding more suitable to proclaiming _Friends, Muppets, countrymen!_ He studied the odd gun. "Just what _is_ that instrument of destruction with which you so timely distracted the old bat?"

"Oh! Oh…this is our latest invention!" Bunsen said proudly. He patted the gun, taking it gently from the shaken Beaker's easily yielding hands. "This is the very latest in ghost-busting weaponry, the Muppet Labs Disint-o-ghoster 3000! Guaranteed to break apart the spectral structure of any formerly Muppet paranormal entity, and –"

 _"_ _Whhaaaaat?"_ Uncle Deadly roared, startling the scientists. He advanced, raising the edges of his satin-lined, though badly torn cloak. "What do you think you're doing with _that?_ How _dare you!"_ He lunged at the pair, and with high-pitched shrieks, they fell over each other, tumbling for the door to the underground hall and the dubious safety of the lab.

Forgotten, the Newsman raised himself slowly off the floor, climbing onto a sofa askew from its place against a wall. All the green fur flu sufferers seemed to have fled the confrontation, and he was alone in the room. Alone. He clutched the edge of the sofa, the nerves prickling in his hands, wishing he wasn't feeling anything. Anything at all. _Oh, ohhh…why is this happening? How could she do this? Gina, oh, Gina…I love you…I love you…what am I going to do now? What's left now?_ He could feel the tears filling his eyes again; it was amazing he had any left to cry. Choking out a low moan, he sat there, dully realizing he'd dropped his glasses somewhere in all the chaos, not caring. _What is there to see? I've seen enough! Oh, Gina…no…_

"Newsie?"

He shivered, shutting his eyes. _No, no! Leave me alone!_

"Newsie! Oh, God, Newsie…" He heard her running down the stairs. Before he could turn away, her arms were around him, he could smell that gorgeous spicy amber scent; he'd never be able to stand smelling it again. Weakly he struggled, but Gina wrapped him tightly in her embrace, dropping to the floor in front of him, her head on his shoulder. "I love you! I love you! It wasn't what you think!"

"Gina…I…I can't…" he choked, but then two other voices chimed in.

"It's not true, Newsman," Rowlf said.

"We were dere! It – it was all dat scary old lady's fault!" Fozzie agreed.

The Newsman opened his eyes, startled. Although his vision was too fuzzy to make out more than a light brown blur and a dark brown blur, there was no mistaking those voices. Gina raised her head, gazing at him with wet tracks all down her cheeks. She stroked his hair, softly, insistently. "I would never, _ever_ cheat on you," she promised. "Never! It was a set-up, Newsie! Your mother—"

"What?" he gulped, staring at her. In her eyes he saw determination, worry, and that same fierce devotion she'd had the night she first…the night they first… He swallowed hard. "What…what did Mother do?"

Relief at once spread over Gina's face. Rowlf stepped closer. "Uh, your ma wrecked some guy's shot, and the ball almost hit Gina," he explained.

"Yeah! And dat tall guy saved her!" Fozzie said. Tentatively he put a hand on Newsie's shoulder. "Dey didn't kiss, I swear it, Newsie! He was just keepin' her from hitting da floor!"

"Ball?...shot…?" Newsie asked, confused. He looked back at Gina.

"I love you," she said. He saw her eyes brimming, and realized all at once what a fool he'd been.

"I love _you,"_ Newsie responded, his voice rough, pained. Gina blinked hard, tears coursing down, and Newsie pulled her head forward with both hands, catching her up in a deep kiss. She opened her mouth to him eagerly, their tongues brushing. Fozzie looked away, embarrassed, but Rowlf sighed, relieved.

What an idiot he was! Gina loved him! She would _never-!_ Crying afresh, grief surmounted by gratitude, then anger, Newsie kissed his beloved with renewed passion. Finally he had to break away, gasping, unable to breathe through his nose, clogged from all the crying. Gina gave a short, breathy laugh, and pulled one of his clean hankies from under her dress. "Here…I always carry a spare for you…" she said, managing a smile.

"Thank you," he mumbled, and blew his nose loudly. Sighing, Gina hugged him tight, her fingers twined in his hair as he tried to clean up a bit, his head over her shoulder. Fozzie and Rowlf relaxed.

"I'm sorry, I'm _so_ sorry, I should have tracked you down and told you what Scribbler did right after it happened," Gina told him.

"I love you," he said, slowly calming, feeling wrung out. "You – _what?_ Wait. Scribbler? My mother? What?"

"Who do you think snapped that stupid picture?" Rowlf growled.

Newsie blinked at them all. "Uh…tell me what happened?"

The whole story poured out of the ones who'd been there, and as he listened, full comprehension growing, Newsie became more and more furious. Gina held him tight, feeling him trembling. She kept stroking his hair, trying to calm him, leaving small kisses on his nose, his cheeks. Wonderful though that felt, he wanted to…to…good grief, he actually wanted to _hurt_ somebody. "They were working _together?"_ he demanded.

"Looked that way," Rowlf said, nodding.

Gina glanced around, noting the smoked, crumbling bits of plaster above. "Where is Mommy Dearest, anyway? I can't imagine she'd leave you alone…"

"She didn't," Newsie muttered, casting a dark look at the wall his mother's ghost had been thrown through. "But that…that dragon thing got rid of her."

"You mean…da _Phantom?"_ Fozzie gasped. "Wow! Boy, do _you_ have friends in weird places!"

"I…I have friends," Newsie replied, softening as he looked at the two brown blurs on either side of him.

"Yes you do," Rowlf said firmly.

"Could one of you find his glasses?" Gina requested. Newsie clung to her, his fingers gripping her more tightly at the slightest shift of her body, afraid to let go. She hugged him in return, deeply happy to feel his broad, soft hands on her shoulders once more. Fozzie hustled into the dressing-room, returning swiftly with the Newsman's undamaged hornrims. Gina placed them carefully on his nose, securing them over his ears; he gazed at her with relief, anxiety, and adoration all intermixed. Kissing him again, she was able to smile, and seeing that, he smiled a little in return. "Together," she told him.

"Together," he agreed, his heart at last slowing. Remembering the earlier crisis, realizing the screams and wails were now silent, he looked around at the overturned chairs, the tables all shoved together, the bits of green fur littering the floor. "Uh…where's everyone else?"

"Not sure. I had to sneak in past the cops," Gina said, tucking a stray lock of hair freed of the loose bun back over her ear.

"It's kind of crazy up there," Rowlf said.

"Yeah, dere's a bunch of beekeepers locking up all dose green monsters!"

"Uh, those were suits to prevent contamination, Fozzie. Not beekeepers."

"Oh. I wondered why dere weren't any bees."

"Can we get out?" Newsie wondered. At least it sounded like the flu was being wrested under control.

"Try the stage left exit, and go behind the backdrop," Rowlf suggested. "The medics mostly seem to be stage right, and in the lobby. Looked like they'd put all the green guys under sedation."

Nodding, Gina rose with a grimace, her lower back still smarting. Newsie immediately assisted, putting his shoulder under her arm, concerned. "There you are! Well, I guess you missed all the fun!" Kermit snapped, coming down into the green room. Piggy and Gonzo were with him; several other Muppets came tiredly traipsing along after. The frog stopped in front of the Newsman and Gina, casting looks of frustration at Rowlf and Fozzie as well. "I guess you missed the big story! I can't believe you guys all hid down here while the National Guard had to—"

"Oh, right! Because there couldn't possibly be any _other_ crisis going on that _you_ ignored, huh?" Gina broke in.

Startled, Kermit looked up at her. "What? What other crisis?"

"Er…Newsie's mom was here, Kermit," Fozzie offered timidly.

"How is that worse than—"

But Miss Piggy laid her gloved hand gently on Kermit's arm, and he paused, casting an uncertain glance back at her. Piggy could tell from Newsie's and Gina's expressions…not to mention the obvious tear-streaks on both their faces…that something terribly serious had taken place. She shook her head almost imperceptibly at Kermit, and he quieted, though he turned confused eyes to the four standing in the middle of the green room. Floyd and Janice flopped onto a sofa, sighing together. Gonzo held onto Camilla, both of them looking weary after being pursued through the catwalks by a raging chicken with green feathers. Beauregard solemnly stared at the ruined door to the Newsman's dressing-room, shaking his head at the thought of repairs. Sam the Eagle strode down the stairs, exclaiming loudly, "And _that_ is why we should never cut funding for our men –er, and women – in uniform! God bless the National Guard! I am _proud_ to have witne…uh…" Seeing several annoyed looks turned his way, Sam stopped. "What?" he demanded, flustered.

"So…what happened?" Kermit asked quietly.

Rowlf looked at the exhausted, strained couple holding one another tightly, Newsie sagging a bit as he kept his arms around Gina. Scratching an ear lightly, Rowlf spoke up. "Well, you know the Newsman's mother is, uh, dead, right?" Kermit nodded warily. Rowlf sighed. "Well, seems she really doesn't like Gina…"

It took a few minutes, and some confusion when Fozzie eagerly jumped in to relate the scene in the pool hall, as he told it completely out of order and with many "No, wait, wait, see"s. Finally the whole tale unfolded, and Piggy's eyes narrowed while she kept hold of her frog's hand, the two of them by then seated along with everyone else except Fozzie, who kept nervously shifting from foot to foot. Kermit shook his head. "I'm sorry, Newsman, Gina. I had no idea things were so complicated for you two."

"That's a good word for it," Gina sighed.

"Add _outrageous_ and _ridiculous_ to that," Newsie grumbled, one arm around Gina's waist as they sat close together. She stroked his cheek, her arm draped over his shoulders.

"So…how are you going to persuade the…ahem…person in charge to return your mother to wherever she belongs?" Piggy asked, making the word _wherever_ sound utterly distasteful.

Newsie shook his head. "I have no idea."

Gina kissed him gently. "We'll stay together. That's how."

He hugged her, deeply weary. Seeing this, Kermit and Piggy exchanged a look; how many times had they themselves sought refuge in one another after an impossible day? "You should go home and get some rest," Piggy advised.

"Sounds about right," Gina agreed.

Newsie sat up a little, shaking his head. "How? Mother will probably ambush us as soon as we set foot outside the theatre!"

"She can't push away _all_ of us," Kermit said, his froggy jaw crumpling in determination.

Surprised, Newsie looked around at the small group. Apparently a number of the troupe had fallen prey to the flu, but quite a few sat here now unharmed, and they all gazed back at him with the same sturdy support. "What…what do you mean?"

"We'll go with you," Rowlf said, and several of the others nodded.

"Yeah, man. After what I just went through up there, a little spook hunt sounds downright relaxin'!" Floyd joked. Janice, smiling, patted his chest.

"Come on," Kermit said, getting up. "Let's see if the exit is clear yet."

It took somewhat longer than hoped, as the CDC workers accosted them all before they'd reached the back door, and everyone had to submit to a breathalyzer test (apparently green fur flu victims had a blood-goo level of .75 or higher) and suffer a quick, painful jab of a needle with the inoculation against the bacteria, but eventually the group assembled on the loading dock. "Are…are you all sure?" Newsie asked.

Everyone nodded, clucked, or gave out some variation of "Yep," "You bet," or "Let's do it!" Feeling awash in gratitude, the Newsman stepped into the alley with his arm around his beloved and hers around him, surrounded by a phalanx of unshakeable Muppets. His friends. He looked up at Gina; she smiled, and pulled him closer as they walked. They stepped up the pace when they reached the street, but no malevolent grey parent materialized to challenge their progress. The crowd bustled along all the way to Gina's Art Deco-era apartment building, and before parting company in the lobby, Newsie turned to Kermit.

"I…I hope everyone recovers soon," he offered, feeling guilty now that he hadn't done anything to help.

Kermit shrugged. "Well, the CDC folks said everyone who's sick should run the full course of the symptoms in anywhere from twelve to forty-eight hours. I guess we'll just have to see how it goes."

"I'm sorry I didn't…"

 _"_ _Vous_ had other matters to attend to," Piggy said graciously.

Gina smiled at her. Newsie, awkward with gratitude, stuck out his hand to the be-gloved pig. Piggy stared at it a moment, then broke into an amused smile and gently laid her fingers over the Newsman's. He was bewildered as to what to do with them, throwing a look of sheer confusion at Piggy. Kermit seemed to be contorting his mouth to prevent a laugh from coming out. With a sigh, Piggy gently pushed her hand, still holding Newsie's, toward his wide mouth, and finally he understood, and quickly, nervously, kissed the back of her glove. He looked at Kermit, hoping he wasn't in trouble, but his boss simply stuck out a flipper for a handshake.

"Thank you," Newsie muttered, blushing. "Thank you both… Thank you _all_ …er…I can get anyone into the Muppet natural history exhibit tomorrow for free who shows up early, when the museum opens," he offered.

"How delightful," Piggy murmured politely.

Kermit smiled. "Well, I know Robin's been talking of nothing else all week! We'll be there." He turned serious. "And…and let us know if there's anything we can do to help, uh, with your, uh, family problem."

Gina shook her head, giving Newsie's left hand a squeeze. "We'll deal with that. Thanks, guys."

"Hey, uh…do da dinosaurs come to life after dark?" Fozzie asked. "'Cause if dey do, I think I'd rather visit in da daytime!"

"No, Fozzie," Gina assured him. "Only in the movies."

"Like, you guys, just kick back and have a groovy rest of the night," Janice said as the group began to disperse with many "goodnights."

"Yeah, short, yellow, and serious! Don't do anything I wouldn't do!" Floyd cackled. Janice smacked his rear playfully as they strolled away.

Newsie waited until his friends had all gone, then looked up at his beloved. She'd waited patiently, knowing what he needed, and when the lobby door had closed and they were alone, she knelt and embraced him tightly. Newsie sighed, trembling all over once, tension easing finally. "I'm sorry," he mumbled in her ear.

"Don't you ever, _ever_ think I'd do that to you again, got it?" she growled at him, but the tenderness with which she stroked his hair assured him she was far more relieved than angry. He nodded, humbled. They kissed again, but then Newsie tapped the elevator call button. Gina held onto him, exchanging many soft kisses and touches, until the bell dinged and the doors slid open for them. They kept their arms around each other the entire ride up to the ninth floor, and when they at last arrived inside their own apartment, and the door was locked, and there was thankfully no sign of Mrs Crimp lurking outside the windows, Gina was on the verge of asking whether her exhausted Muppet journalist wanted dinner or a shower first when he suddenly stood on tiptoe, bending her gently down for a very involved kiss.

Sighing happily, Gina returned it, loving the soft-scratchy feel of his fingers on the back of her neck. When they parted for a breath, Newsie swallowed tightly, his gaze anxious, searching her own. "Newsie? What is it?"

"Would you…would you make love with me?" he asked, his voice rough, hesitant.

Gina's breath caught; it was the first time he'd ever actually asked aloud for anything intimate. He stared up at her, looking so afraid she'd refuse that she melted down to the carpet, enfolding him in her arms. She whispered, "Only if you will with me, my sweet Aloysius."

She felt him sigh, and press tight against her. Kissing even as they rose together, Newsie surprised her again by pulling her along after him, his hands on her hip and her right arm as he walked slowly backwards along the hall to the bedroom. Delighted, Gina smiled at him, and as she passed through the bedroom door, she shut it behind them.

After all, initiative-showing or not, her Newsman was a terribly private person.


	13. Chapter 13

They sat for a long while at the kitchen table, holding hands, saying nothing. Neither Gina nor the Newsman wanted breakfast, and neither had bothered to put on clothing other than underthings yet. Newsie's hair was frazzled, and Gina had faint sleep-deprived circles under her eyes, making her look somewhat more like her beloved Muppet journalist. Sleep had overtaken them only after several hours of embracing, exploring, rejoicing, and gasping one another's names, passion and anxiety about this dreaded day driving them relentlessly long after they felt weary. If this turned out to be their last night together, both of them wanted to fully demonstrate to the other how entwined their hearts and lives had grown by encouraging their bodies to follow suit.

Gina slowly turned her coffee mug around on the table with her fingertips; she'd barely sipped the cooling coffee within. Her free hand wouldn't let go of Newsie's, her fingers interlaced with his. He didn't know what to do with his other hand, and kept stroking the back of her fingers, then pushing his glasses farther up his nose, or lifting his own mug only to set it down again untasted, or nervously tapping the thin marble top of the round café table. Gina sighed, and he looked into her tired eyes, worried.

"I think he's late," she muttered.

"Is that a _bad_ thing?" Newsie asked. Every second in his love's presence was a diamond to him right now. He wasn't sure if it had simply been due to the emotion of the moment last night, but he'd moved more forcefully, felt more wholly committed to the actions they'd joined in together, than he'd ever permitted himself to before, and Gina had…well…he was thankful the walls here were fairly soundproof.

"I'd rather we got this over with," Gina sighed. "I can't stand just _sitting_ here not knowing what's going to happen."

Newsie gave her hand a squeeze. "It…it must be difficult for you, not having any idea what comes next anymore." She'd relinquished the gift she'd inherited from her Gypsy family when she'd learned that would be the unfortunate price to pay for being involved with the Newsman. His natural, bizarre energy field, which one friend had declared "attracted disaster like a trailer park," went even more haywire around Gina unless her own sensitivity to future events was contained. Gina nodded at him, rubbing the copper beads around her neck with an impatient stroke of her fingers.

"Wish they'd come up with a way to make you falling-object-proof instead," she said. Newsie grimaced, silently agreeing with her. He still harbored guilt over that, though rationally he knew there was little he could do to change his own dubious talent for unwittingly manifesting the worst parts of his news reports upon himself. Sometimes it seemed like they'd both been forced to take the lesser evil, he apparently doomed to suffer for his work, and Gina having to choose between knowing the future…even a little…and loving her Newsman. She rose from the table suddenly, though she didn't let go of his hand. "This is stupid. Where _is_ he?"

"Maybe…maybe he changed his mind?" Newsie offered hopefully. He slid from his chair, and gently wrapped his arms around Gina. "Maybe it's over. Maybe we're safe!"

"Newsie…this is the Reaper we're talking about. Define _safe."_ Despite her anxiety, she tried to smile at him, and ruffled his already-fluffed-every-direction hair. Newsie started to stretch on tiptoe for a kiss when they both heard a groaning, creaking sound in the living room. They stared at one another, tense. Newsie swallowed hard. Gina threw both arms around him, hugging tight. He returned it, but after a few seconds, in mutual, silent accord, they slowly walked into the dining room, each with one arm around the other, to face whatever horrible decision Death would make when told the pair had completely rejected his ultimatum.

A bony, shrouded figure was tapping on the small aquarium near the sofa. Immediately enraged, Gina shouted, "Leave the fish alone!"

Newsie gulped, clinging to her, as the shrouded entity straightened up, turned to gaze impassively at them from empty eyesockets, and Newsie realized it looked…different.

"Does he seem… _shorter_ to you?" Newsie whispered to Gina.

"Uhm…" Gina was equally taken aback.

The grim figure stepped toward them, scowling. Suddenly panic-stricken, Newsie pointed out the street-view windows. "Uh – hey! Look! A war zone!"

The skeleton whipped its skull around to look outside, then slowly turned back to the couple once more. Newsie had no idea how bare bone could appear to be scowling, but it certainly was. _"That's not funny. You think that's funny? Do you know how many of us worked overtime that day? How many souls perished?"_

"N-no, I wasn't trying to…" the Newsman stammered, turning crimson. "No, that's _not_ funny! That's not what I meant! I was just t-trying to, er, I mean, that is –"

 _"_ _I know you reporters tend to get jaded, but come on, man!"_ the reaper complained, gesturing out the window.

"But I wasn't!" Newsie insisted, horribly embarrassed. "I just thought it might distract…er…uh…" The skeleton continued to glare at him. Holding tight to Gina, Newsie muttered at her, _"Why_ do people think I'm trying to be funny? I don't know _how!"_

"Look, why don't you drop the dramatics?" Gina demanded of the awful spectre. "Newsie and I have talked it over, and we're not—"

 _"_ _Boss just sent me to tell you he's gonna be late, okay? Torrential rains in Peru, or something. He's busy. So you BREATHING people,"_ the reaper used the term with obvious disdain, _"can just hold your danged horses for once, and he will kindly stop for you when he's danged good and ready, got it?"_ As Gina and Newsie stared in shock at this pronouncement, the reaper shrugged, shaking its head, retying part of its shroud around its neck like a scarf. _"Geeeeez…everyone's so impatient these days! It's what comes of letting those geeks at MIT and Harvard live long enough to develop that stupid Internet..."_

"Er," Newsie gulped. "I thought that was Al Gore?"

The reaper scowled, wagging a bony finger at him. _"Don't EVEN mention HIM! He's the reason I gotta go to the Arctic next instead of attending the Summer Break party over in Maui! All the surf coffins'll be broke by the time I get there…"_ With a shrug of its shoulders as though to pull on a heavy coat, the skeleton muttered under its nonexistent breath, _"Stupid climate change researchers not bringing enough amoxicillin…"_ and vanished.

The Newsman stared at the empty spot in the once-again peaceful living room, then slowly tilted his head up to meet Gina's astonished gaze. "What now?" he wondered.

Gina mulled it over. "Well…if Death isn't going to get around to us for a while…what time does the exhibit open at the Museum?"

"Uhm…ten-fifteen."

Gina glanced at the vintage cuckoo clock hanging on a nearby wall. "Good. That gives us over two hours."

"I have to be there early," Newsie reminded her, "I'm supposed to meet…ah…oh…" Her fervent kisses silenced him. "But – but we haven't cleaned up yet, and I ought to shave, and…" Newsie protested feebly, although his heart and certain other parts of him were fully acquiescent with the idea of throwing the normal schedule out the window.

"Aloysius."

"Gina?"

"Shut up, Talented Journalist, and get in here."

She had his shirt off before he was even able to kick the bedroom door shut behind them.

"This is gonna be so cooool," one of the younger frogs exclaimed repeatedly, bouncing up and down in place. Mr Ribbot shifted his bulky rear uncomfortably on one of the hard benches outside the Central Park West entrance to the Museum, clearly having third and fourth thoughts about having agreed to be one of the chaperones for the visit to the grand opening of the Muppet Natural History exhibit by the entirety of Frog Scout Troop #1936. All around the benches, young froglets fidgeted, or submitted to their troop leader, Gil Frogg, retying their bandanas, or examined street goo which had adhered to the bottoms of their flippers on this already-muggy August morning. Robin the Frog was trying to one-up his friend Ribsy with his Muppasaur trivia knowledge, while his uncle stood nearby, chatting amiably with his old ad-agency friends Gil and Jill (now retired and married and raising their second batch of tadpoles), and Piggy sat on a bench and permitted two of the older froglets to fan her with palm leaves they'd picked up somewhere.

"You'll have to come by soon, Phi-er, Kermit, before they lose their tails," Jill invited, smiling. "They're so _cute_ at that age."

"I'd like that," Kermit agreed, though he wondered when his and Piggy's hectic schedule would allow more non-showbiz-related socializing. Still, it was wonderful to meet up with the frogs he'd once accidentally worked with, and even more wonderful to find they'd made a happy home with a new family under the boathouse in Central Park. He smiled at skinny young Dill, eldest son of Gil and Jill, and offered his hand. "Nice to meet you finally. What, er, pond are you this year?"

Dill shook hands respectfully, his ungainly teenage throat-sac bobbing at his nervousness at meeting the famous Mr the Frog. "I'm in Dark Green, sir."

"Dark Green! Wow," Kermit said, muddling a bit. He couldn't recall exactly what the order of pond rankings in the scouts was, but Robin stepped in to his rescue.

"Dark Green's where I was last year, Uncle Kermit. The next one up is Mottled Slimy Green Pond," Robin explained, modestly tapping the somewhat slimy, mottled-green sash over his shoulder; he'd chosen to wear his full-dress Frog Scout uniform, as befitting the special occasion. Ribsy shoved him aside, not wanting to be left out.

"So what? I've only got two badges to go before Mottled Slimy," the young toad said. "That's _way_ more than you, Dill!"

Dill shrugged. "I'll get there…I worry more about _those_ guys," he said, voice dropping as he nodded over at a small group of mice in scout uniforms. Although the mice were allowed to join now, they hadn't assimilated well in activities like swimming and flycatching.

Robin nodded sadly. "Uncle Kermit, some of the guys make fun of the new kids," he whispered.

"Well, not while I'm within hearing, they don't!" Gil protested.

"I'm just glad the organization finally realized the marketing _advantage_ of diversifying," Jill said.

Miss Piggy, bored and wondering how long the scout troop would be examining the exhibit, resigned herself to a long morning – after all, what kid didn't love Muppasaurs? She blinked in surprise: a red Jaguar screeched to the curb, deftly parking in between two taxis. The passenger door opened. "Awwww… Moooooommmm…do I _have_ to?" a low voice whined.

"Yes, youuu doooo! Dooo youuu gooood to get awaaay from those dratted videogaaames all the time! They'll rot youuur braaaiin!" another voice, presumably the mother, snapped in reply…at least, Piggy decided, the _tone_ sounded snappish, if the speed was rather…lugubrious. She blinked again as a large-shelled snail with chubby cheeks, tiny glasses over its eyestalks, and a Frog Scout bandana halfheartedly tied around his neck plopped onto the sidewalk and crawled, grumbling, toward the scout group.

Piggy heard one of the little frogs sigh, "Oh, great. Melvin's here."

The young snail protested again before the Jag door was pulled shut from within: "Videogaaames improoove foot-eye coooordination!"

"Well, that maaay beee, but they're certainly not doooing anything to work youur psuuuedopod! Now go ooon, and remember to caaall me when you're ready to beee picked up – youuur father had a brieeef to give yesterday mooorning, so he's going to be laaate toniiight!" The car swerved abruptly into traffic, causing more than a few horn-honks on the street. _Apparently,_ Piggy thought, _snails didn't DRIVE slow…_

Melvin crawled along the sidewalk, passing Piggy without a glance, still grumbling to himself about a wasted Saturday at the boring old Museum.

"Oh, great. They're opening," Rhonda muttered, dismayed as the revolving doors began turning, the crowd on the front steps filing inside. She tapped the aardvark on the elbow. "Crowd shots! Crowd shots! Maybe if Sunshine shows up we can get him to voiceover later…" Her older cameraman hefted his equipment and began filming the Frog Scouts, various Muppets and other people, and what seemed to be an endless daycare group of children as they all climbed up the broad steps and flowed into the Museum. Rhonda scrambled to one side as an eight-foot-tall yellow bird nearly stepped on her. "Hey! Watch it!" she yelled.

The bird paused, blinking curiously down at the rat. "Oh! Hello! I'm sorry, I didn't see you way down there! –Careful, Snuffy, there's a mouse on the stairs!"

Rhonda simply shook her head as the bird continued on with the preschoolers, followed by a loping, trunk-swinging, brown furry pachyderm. "Don't worry, Bird! I see her! Haw haw haw."

 _"_ _Mouse,_ my Zumba-toned butt," Rhonda growled, looking around in high-pitched anxiety. "Where the heck _is_ he?"

At that moment, a cab scraped the curbside, and the Newsman burst out of the back seat, sprinting up the main entrance stairs toward Rhonda. "Sorry," he said immediately. His hair was still damp, and his felt looked freshly scrubbed, and there was even more of an air of tension around him than he usually projected. Gina paid the cabbie and then took the stairs two at a time to join them. "Are they…are they open?" Newsie asked, looking at all the people pouring in.

"Give Captain Obvious here a cigar," Rhonda snapped. "Where the heck have you been?" She then noticed Gina looking still more breathless and newly-cleaned than Newsie, and threw up her paws in frustration. "Never mind! I _see_ where you've been! You shoulda taken the subway, it's faster at this hour!" She poked the aardvark again. "Follow 'em in, get some shots of everyone going up, then go with 'em to the exhibit gallery on Three, okay? Just follow the crowd, and keep shooting." Nodding, the aardvark moved slowly through the door with the rest of the visitors, balancing the camera awkwardly as the door revolved with him. Rhonda turned to the sloth, just now climbing the steps. "And look who else can't move any faster! Come on, Tommy, you're with us. Did you bring your question notes, Mr Professional?"

Newsie flushed angrily. "I –I know how to ask questions without notes, thank you!"

"News ta me," Rhonda sighed. "Let's get in there. Remember your press pass, at least?" Newsie tapped the laminated badge hanging in front of his tie, and Rhonda was marginally pleased to note he'd worn the bone-embroidered red tie she'd bought him yesterday, even if he _had_ to pair it with his standard brown-plaid coat… At least his pants were a subdued red-brown which complemented the cranberry tie.

"I didn't forget," Newsie said. He checked his watch, brushing the new woven bracelet which he'd asked Gina to make for him. "We should get up to the gallery. The Museum director is going to formally open the exhibit hall in eight minutes."

"Again, what would I do without you, Mr News Flash?" Rhonda said sourly.

"Cut him some slack, Rhonda," Gina growled as they all hastened toward the front doors.

"Did you get that thing with your ma worked out?" Rhonda asked, dropping all sarcasm, giving her reporter a concerned glance.

Newsie shook his head, focused on hurrying in, and Gina responded softly, "We've been given a delay of sentence. Don't know what happens next."

Rhonda sighed. "I'm sorry. Look – just try to focus on this thing first, okay?"

Newsie shot her a glare. Didn't he _always_ act professionally, no matter how outrageous the circumstances? He couldn't relax, even when he felt Gina touching his shoulder. "I love you," she murmured to him.

"I love you," he whispered in reply, and indicated the bracelet, deep green and blue threads interwoven and knotted with strands of his own and his beloved's hair. "Thank you for this."

"I don't know if it'll do any good," Gina sighed. "I can't _feel_ whether it's working or not anymore." Despite her own doubts, she'd speedily crafted the bracelet a few minutes ago during the cab ride. She was touched that her Newsman now fully believed in its efficacy, even if she herself wasn't sure it would protect him from his mother.

"It has to," Newsie said, giving her a hopeful look.

"Hey, Newsman!"

They stopped, turning; Scott came walking up the steps, appearing somewhat unsure of his reception. "Hey…I hope you don't still think I…"

Embarrassed, Newsie shook his head quickly. "Uh, no. No. I'm sorry for…for what I said. Er, and shoving you."

"Don't film this, you idiot," Rhonda growled quietly at the clueless sloth.

Scott closed the distance between them, holding out a long hand. "So…we're all good again?"

Relieved that the techie wasn't holding his ridiculous behavior against him, Newsie gratefully shook hands. He fumbled in his pockets. "Er…we brought an extra pass…if…if you'd like to…"

"The exhibit sounds awesome," Scott agreed, grinning. "Thanks!"

Newsie came up short, and looked at Gina, bewildered. Smiling, she held up his wallet, and pulled out two Museum tickets, handing one to Scott. Blushing again, Newsie nodded thanks at Gina, tucking his wallet safely into a coat pocket. Scott accepted the ticket, and clapped Newsie hard on the back, making the shorter Muppet choke. "Cool. Glad you two are all bolt-and-nut again. Go do your news thing, dude. I'll hang out and look at the creepy critters," Scott said, still grinning. Before Newsie could grasp the analogy, Gina gave him a gentle push toward the doors again.

"Hurry! Go be _you._ I love you." She smiled at him, and Newsie, reassured, tossed her a smile in return before hustling with Rhonda through the nearest door.

A cluster of folks from the Muppet Theatre waited in front of one of the two busy ticket booths just past the information center with its impressively large globe. Newsie usually paused to admire the giant globe, which reminded him of the one in the lobby of the first newspaper he'd ever worked for, the _Daily News,_ before he switched to broadcast journalism; he didn't get the chance today. "Hey, man, where's our free tickets?" Floyd called out as Newsie and Rhonda neared them.

Newsie's gaze swept along the crowd of Muppets, relieved to see several people there who'd recovered at least enough from the flu to be present for the big event this morning. Dr Teeth and Zoot hung onto one another weakly, still seeming a little green around the hair but otherwise their usual selves.

"Floyd," Kermit muttered, giving the bassist a disapproving frown before stepping up to the ticket booth. "Uh, I'll cover the Scouts. That's two, three, four…could you guys stop hopping for a second so I can count right?...seven, eight…geez…uh, fifteen children's passes for the special exhibit, please."

"Sixteen," Robin whispered, indicating the snail, who looked as though he'd rather _not_ be included in the group.

"Right, sixteen, sorry," Kermit corrected. Piggy nudged him. "Oh, and two adults."

"Yes sir…would that be for the Frog Vivarium, then?" the Museum clerk asked.

"Frog Vivarium? Er, no – the new Muppet exhibit opening today," Kermit explained. As the clerk counted out the tickets for the group, the other Muppet Theatre performers looked hopefully, expectantly, or indignantly at the Newsman.

Newsie slumped, realizing there was no way the Museum would let him comp in that many people…and that he really didn't have time to argue. Seeing the problem, Gina stepped in. "Go! I'll handle this." She smiled again as Newsie threw a kiss at her and broke into a run, flashing his press badge at the guard before heading upstairs, Rhonda leaping only a step behind. The sloth ambled along in their wake, though he stopped in front of the guard for almost a minute, slowly trying to locate his own press pass. Gina sighed, seeing the familiar flame of auburn hair bounce out of sight around the balcony to the left. _Please let this go smoothly for him…he doesn't need any MORE stress today,_ she thought, and pulled as much cash from her purse as she had, then went for her bank card. _Good thing payday was yesterday…_

The crowd had piled up in front of the cordoned-off special exhibits gallery just past the Hall of Amphibians and Reptiles in the southeast corner of the third floor. Rhonda's anxiety lessened slightly at seeing the dependable aardvark filming; she nodded at Newsie, and he briskly smoothed down his hair and sports coat and stepped in front of the camera. "For KRAK Big Apple News, I'm the Newsman, here at the grand opening of the new Muppet Natural History exhibit…" he began immediately, digital footage rolling, and Rhonda blew out a breath. She ragged him a lot, but the Newsman really did know his job, and maybe the shoot today would be far better than what they'd had to deal with all week. She stood to one side, out of frame, watching in satisfaction.

"Hey! _No_ touching!" a prissy voice exclaimed; Rhonda looked up as a solid man in a tight suit worked his way through the crowd and held up his hands. "Yes, yes, quiet down, I know we're _all_ very excited but the noise doesn't get you in any faster, now does it?" He waited, his small nose in the air, until the assembled visitors, Muppets and humans and animals alike, all quieted expectantly. "See? It really does work. Now. The Museum is proud to present…oh blah, blah, blah, you _know_ what this is, why do I bother? Go on in, then!" With a flourish which seemed more resigned than enthused, the Museum director unhooked the velvet ropes and tossed them aside, and the crowd surged into the gallery.

The Frog Scouts, by unspoken but clearly mutual agreement, swarmed around the massive posed skeleton of the _Muppetasaurus Tex_ immediately, oohing and croaking, numerous pairs of bulbous eyes open wide as they stared up at the impressive giant among Muppasaurs. Melvin the snail sniffed audibly. "Big deaaal," he complained. "The _Velociiiimuppets_ could oouutruun that thiiing aaany daaay."

"Look! Look! Prehistoric mice!" one of the rodent Frog Scouts squeaked, pointing at a realistic-looking display of a large, hollowed-out giant Muppafern crawling with posed, stuffed examples of _Muppetodontus Rodentii._

"Wow, birds!" the tall yellow bird said, peering at a mounted, turkeylike _Velocimuppet._

"They sure don't look as friendly as you, Bird!" observed the brown pachyderm.

"Gee, I wonder what they're fighting about?" the bird mused. "Maybe one of them wasn't letting the other one play with her doll?"

The huge brown mammothesque creature blinked and swung his head back and forth. "I don't see any dolls…maybe it was a food fight?"

"Maybe," the bird agreed, poking his beak down at the mounted plants, rocks, and tiny lizards posed terrified in between the two fossil monsters captured mid-snarl at one another. Puzzled, the yellow bird looked back at his friend. "But then where's the food? I don't see any birdseed!"

"Many of these rare examples of prehistoric Muppet creatures have _never_ been seen by the public before," the Newsman said, roving freely once the sloth had caught up and pinned a battery-powered mic to his tie. Rhonda paced the camerasloth, occasionally pointing out the rapturous children or note-taking grad student types around the room for the aardvark to focus on or for Newsie to approach. Seeing Kermit standing with Piggy, examining a stuffed Paleolithic creature, the Newsman stepped closer to them. "Even celebrities can't resist the appeal of such a scientifically significant event! Tell me, Mr and Mrs the Frog: what do you think so far?"

Piggy straightened up, instantly focused on the camera instead of Newsie, smiling charmingly, but Kermit nodded at him. "Hello, Newsman. Well, so far, I'd say…it's…it's interesting. Very, uh, interesting." The frog looked back at the display he'd been viewing, an adorably tiny rabbit with pink fur, frazzled ears, large hind feet, and the biggest eyes he'd ever seen. It looked, Kermit reflected, like Bean Bunny's even cuter ancestor. He checked the plaque at the foot of the glass case: _Muppalepus Snarlodontus,_ it said.

"What about you, Miss Piggy? What most intrigues you about this historic collection?" Newsie asked.

Piggy struggled to say something enthusiastic. "Well of course, _moi_ is not an expert in this subject, ha ha, however…I think the big thing over there is the largest monster I've ever seen!" She nodded back at the _M. Tex,_ and Newsie agreed with a nod.

"This exhibition of prehistoric Muppets doesn't focus merely on old bones and strange, weird creatures," he continued for the camera, walking to the glass case enclosing the wrinkled, dried-up mummy. "Also on display for the first time anywhere, here is the famous _Muppeti Quidquid,_ a member of the race believed to be the possible precursor of all Whatnots!" He lingered only a moment on the drawn-tight, seemingly disapproving grey features of the mummy, too unnerved by its resemblance to his mother. "And over here, I see some young children enjoying the exhibit! Excuse me, little girl…"

Gina was too pleased at watching her Newsie interact with the group of preschoolers to notice when an unwelcome, mop-headed tabloid reporter snuck past the guard at the entrance to the gallery, vaguely waving a laminated cereal box-top he'd glued his photo onto in lieu of the press pass his bosses were too cheap to pay for. Fleet Scribbler gazed around a moment, sizing up the likelihood of juicy stories in the room. He saw Gina and that tall blond guy both here, though they weren't anywhere near each other at present; then he saw the way Gina was fondly gazing at the nerdy yellow reporter yapping at some kid. _Drat…so they've made up. Wish I'd been there to photograph the blowup at the theatre._ He was still smarting at having missed the very public scene he'd heard about between the two, as well as having arrived at the Muppet Theatre too late last night to get clear shots of any of the green fur flu victims. He had, however, written a particularly biting piece about the unsanitary conditions at that theatre having contributed to the fast spread of the bacteria. Then he saw Miss Piggy chatting with some small green froglets near the biggest Muppasaur ever. _SHE'S here! How? Why?_ His heart beating a fast tango, Scribbler eased around the edge of the room, trying to get a clear view of the pig without her seeing him in return.

The Amazing Mumford noticed someone in a better hat than his, poufy white but with strands of greenish fur decorating it. "Pardon me," he said, easing up beside the bemused Muppet. "Where did you get that fabulous hat? Can you pull rabbits out of that?"

"Oh, nubber doonen der booncy-booncy," the Chef said modestly, gesturing negatively with one hand. He held up a struggling turkey in his other meaty grip. "Doons der torkey-borkey!"

"Get me outta here," the turkey begged the magician. "You can pull me outta yer hat all you want, buddy! Please!"

Dr Van Neuter bounced through, beaming, greeting everyone benevolently. _"Hel-_ lo! Welcome! Oh, isn't this _wonderful,_ Mulch? _All_ these people turned out! See? I _told_ you we should've put out a table with cocktail weenies and punch!" Mulch grunted noncommittally, eyeing the public with wary suspicion. Van Neuter spotted a huge brown creature gently swaying from side to side as it listened to one of the Museum employees explaining to a cluster of children the vegetable diet of a pair of _M. Bovinosaurii_ with broad-spreading horns and heavy jaws. "Ohmygosh! _Ohmygosh! Mulch!_ Do you _see_ that? Incredible!" The scientist swung around to glare a moment at his assistant. "And _you_ said studying Cryptomuppetology was a waste of time! What do you call _that,_ then? A living, breathing specimen of the previously-only-rumored Muppet Furry Mammoth!"

"Rungah owfh muhnunnuh," Mulch opined, less than impressed.

Van Neuter was on the verge of snapping back when he noticed someone else. He perked even more, charging past the mummy to grab the hand of a startled Bunsen Honeydew. "Dr Honeydew! _What_ an unexpected pleasure! I had no _idea_ you were interested in Muppet paleontology!"

"Oh! Hello again, Dr Van Neuter! Beaker, remember, we met at that festival in Los Angeles a few years back?" Bunsen turned to Beaker as Van Neuter kept happily pumping his arm. Beaker meeped a greeting, looking curiously at Mulch. Mulch glowered back, the whole overblown feel of the event making him moody. "Well, it certainly is an impressive collection, Dr Van Neuter –"

"Oh, please! We're colleagues! _Phil,"_ the vet beamed, forgetting to relinquish Bunsen's hand.

"Oh, of course! Well, Phil, actually, wonderful though this is, Beaker and I are here to conduct the final phase of an experiment in parapsychological antiterrorism," Honeydew explained, gesturing to the enormous gun Beaker held.

"How did you get that past security?" Van Neuter wondered.

Bunsen began snickering. "Oh, we told them it was a… _sstt, sstt, sst…_ a pressure washer, and that we were here to assist you in cleaning off more Muppasaur specimens!" They all looked back toward the entrance, where a guard was watching hawkishly; Sam the Eagle whispered something in the guard's ear, and they both glared at the scientists.

"Oh, it's all right, they're with me!" Van Neuter called amiably. He frowned at Bunsen, puzzled. "Antiterrorism? Do you think…" His voice hushed. "Do you think we're targeted by one of those extremist groups – like that awful _Muppet Show Purity Group,_ or…or…" He gulped, "The _Tea Party Antieducational Committee?"_

Honeydew looked startled. "Goodness me! I should hope not!"

"Mee!" Beaker agreed, worried.

"Our mission today," Bunsen explained, "is to fend off or even destroy a truly dangerous Muppet ghost which has been haunting the Newsman there! Our data indicates there is a good possibility the offending spectre will show up today!"

Beaker meeped a comment, but then wavered a little. He put a hand on Mulch's shoulder to steady himself, and the blue hunchback looked askance at him; Beaker quickly jerked away, intimidated by the hulking Muppet. "You two aren't coming down with the flu, are you?" Van Neuter asked eagerly. "Because if you _are,_ I would _love_ to get some bacteria samples for my lab!"

"Meep!"

"No, no. We've both been inoculated. You can't be too careful," Honeydew said, smiling. "No…I apologize for my assistant's weakness. We were up all night _completely_ rebuilding this model after our previous one was, er, damaged by someone who didn't share our enthusiasm for paranormal studies…"

Beaker shot a glare at Bunsen. What did he mean, _we_ were up all night? Beaker had done all the work while Bunsen snored on his cot!

"Oh my goodness!" Van Neuter gasped, looking away, and hurriedly patted Bunsen's shoulder. "I'm so sorry, Bunnie – we'll catch up later! I simply _must_ take care of something first!" Bunsen and Beaker stared in surprise as the tall scientist bounded over to the Great Gonzo, Camilla, and a few more chickens who'd tagged along out of curiosity, all examining the _Velocimuppet_ skeletons engaged in a frozen fight with the _M. Tex_. "Look, Mulch! _Birds!_ Birds! Oh, oh, _where_ did I put that DNA solution…" Excitedly Van Neuter rummaged in his voluminous lab coat.

"Awwfuggah moom frungah," Mulch snorted.

"How could I have left it in another coat? I only _have_ the one, after _somebody_ let the goat eat the dry-cleaning!" Van Neuter hissed, triumphantly pulling out a large syringe. "Ah- _ha!"_

Beaker gave Bunsen a knowing look, then started silently laughing, his head bobbing up and down. "Meep _munnie?"_ he repeated.

Honeydew blushed. "There…there was an open bar in L.A… I…er, may have gone out after you fell asleep…" Suddenly he clutched Beaker's arm. "Beaker! Fire it up!"

Newsie had relaxed somewhat, constantly stealing glances at Gina, who strolled along out of camera range as he moved from display to display to ad-lib about the impressiveness of this Muppasaur or that ancient, untranslated text. He didn't want to let her out of his sight. Rhonda nodded and pointed and signaled to both cameramuppets, getting as many excited crowd reaction shots and well-angled views of both the Newsman and the people he interviewed as she could, riding on a natural high of controlled tension. Now _this_ was what she liked about the job: directing the action, and the Newsman by now was responsive to her gestures, instinctively switching topics and subjects in front of the camera fairly smoothly. _We might make a star anchor outta Goldie yet,_ she thought, pleased. Then she considered putting an earpiece on him to feed him news stories while he was on-air, and grimaced. _Not a chance. He'd flub it all. Well…field reporter is where the best action is, anyway._ After all, a few more sleekly-done reports like this, and maybe they'd be assigned something more challenging and high-profile, like environmental protests or the juicily outraged mob sure to gather at the courthouse for the upcoming Suggs trial. She wished they could've filmed last night at the Muppet Theatre; Newsie really needed to get a little more chaos coverage under his belt…assuming he wore belts…

 _"_ _A-LOYsius! You disobedient boy!"_

Newsie swung around, startled; before he could respond, an enormous brown furry elephant with no ears lumbered up to Mrs Crimp. "Uh, actually, it's pronounced _Al-o-ish-us,"_ the pachyderm told her, looking embarrassed. "But, awww, all my friends call me Snuffy!"

Everyone stared at the large Muppet. Silence fell around the entire room, punctuated only briefly by a woman's alto voice raised in indignation: "—So, like, you know, maybe _Jell-o,_ but I would _never_ wrestle in _pudding!"_

Mrs Crimp snorted at the earless mammoth, and he shuffled back, abashed. She pointed a sharp finger at the Newsman. _"Look_ at you! You've dragged the name of Crimp through _enough_ filth now, Aloysius! I see you brought _her_ along, and you're not even ashamed of it! Why, you practically _reek_ of –of – _dirtiness!"_

"I showered!" Newsie protested. Gina immediately joined him, and they held onto one another defiantly. "Mother, leave! No one invited you!"

"Don't see why not," Floyd murmured. "All these dead things, she fits right in!"

"I was thinking she's got more in common with _dose_ things," Rizzo muttered back, indicating the sharp-beaked, viciously-toothed _Velocimuppets._

"No way, dude. That's an insult to the toothy things," Scott told him.

"I have had _more_ than enough of your shameful, disobedient –"

"He doesn't have to _obey_ you any more!" Gina shouted. "He's a grown Muppet, and you're a pushy old—"

Simultaneously, Newsie yelled, "I won't let you bully me any more, Mother! You—you _lied_ to me! Gina _never_ cheated on me!"

Scribbler, hidden behind the mummy case, scribbled hastily on a notepad. Maybe he could get a decent scandal for the _Scandal_ today after all…

Mrs Crimp scrunched her entire grey face, eyes blazing fiercely behind tiny spectacles. "I can't believe you, Aloysius! You call _me_ a liar, when every day _you're_ pretending to be moral and upstanding, and all the time you're living in _disgusting_ sin with that _im_ moral—"

 _"_ _Meeeep!"_ Beaker shrieked, loosing the vastly widened spectrum and vastly increased power of the Muppet Labs Disint-o-ghoster _4000_ at the revenant advancing on the Newsman. The startled ghost vanished, reappearing a few feet away; the dancing plasma beam instead bathed one of the _M. Bovinocorpus_ completely…and it lowed, shifting off its platform, looking around confused at all the other creatures in its suddenly unfamiliar surroundings.

"Oh dear! _That's_ not supposed to happen!" Bunsen said, startled.

A number of things which weren't supposed to happen _did_ in quick succession after that, all of them bad.

"Not the freaks again! My son surrounds himself with social rejects!" Mrs Crimp sneered, dodging again as Beaker tried a second shot, his arms almost completely wrapped around the fat barrel of the anti-Muppaspectre gun, barely keeping it aimed roughly in the ghost's direction. The beams spattered over the _Muppetasaurus Tex,_ then the two groupings of _Velocimuppets,_ when Mrs Crimp popped out of the path of the sweeping rays.

Kermit grabbed Piggy's shoulder and ducked with her. "Bunsen! What the hey!"

"Oh, oh! Careful, Beakie! I think we may have amped up the frequency of the Tobin waves just a _teensy_ bit too much!" Honeydew called, ducking himself when the ray shot right over him.

"Attacking a defenseless old lady! How _dare_ you!" Mrs Crimp howled, dodging yet again; Beaker staggered, the gun heating up so dangerously he was having difficulty even gripping it.

"Defenseless!" Gina said, astounded.

Scribbler dove away from the glass case safely enclosing the mummy as a wild shot cracked the surface of it. "Hey! Press! Noncombatant!" he yelped.

 _"_ _You!"_ Gina cried, spotting the hack.

The mummy case creaked and crunched and shattered into a thousand bits. The grey, shriveled thing within stood up, throwing off its fur wraps, tattered cerements of linen waving from its upstretched arms as it bellowed its anger to the ceiling, the echo thrumming all through this gallery and the ones beyond. "Frungah mogla Mookie-mookie! Ungawaaahhhh!" it shouted.

Some of the preschoolers began to cry. Their teachers tried to comfort them, huddled in a corner away from the still-shooting plasma beams while Beaker, squealing in terror, was yanked this way and that by the growing force of the Disint-o-ghoster, its reverse-Paramuppet power core overheating.

"Now _this_ is out of hand!" Mumford exclaimed, producing his wand. _"A lá—"_

 _"_ _Froonguh amagugguh poohawah!"_ the abruptly-undead shaman Mookie-mookie shouted at the same time, shoving the two carved googly-eyeballs into its hollow eyesockets. A wave of force shunted out of the jade eyeball, slamming into Mumford; he screamed, propelled backwards, out of the exhibit hall and into the nearest elevator. Its doors slammed shut and it promptly dropped to the basement and locked itself there. As everyone stared, unable to react to it all at once, the shaman waved his hands in elaborate gestures, chanting, "Mooga-shaka! Mooga-shaka! Mooga-mooga-mooga-shaka!"

As if entranced, Animal and MahnaMahna began shuffling toward the undead shaman, taking up the chant in rough voices: "Mooga-shaka…mooga-shaka…"

Gonzo whispered to Camilla, "This way, sweetie – while no one's looking at us chickens!" She bawked a quiet assent, but before they had crawled very far, Camilla and then each of the other three in turn squawked in pain one by one. Gonzo looked at them all, bewildered. "What? What is it?"

"Birds! Oh, how fortunate!" Van Neuter cried, waving his now-empty syringe, completely oblivious to the growing chaos in the gallery; Mulch, on the other hand, began backing slowly away from the central display, staring up at the stirring _M. Tex._ Even if his boss was too focused on his pet experiment to act wisely, Mulch knew this was bad things. This was _very_ bad things…

"Are you getting all this?" Rhonda asked Tommy and the aardvark. They nodded, awed, staring up at the moving Muppasaurs instead of the Newsman. Rhonda whipped out her cell and hit speed-dial. "Hey! Hey Murray? I need a truck out at the Museum right away! There's a big story happening _right now!_ –No, no, I mean you need to send it like yesterday! Before there's nobody left to report it— _eeek!"_ She dodged as Beaker tumbled past, shrieking in panic, frantically and vainly trying to extricate himself from the buckled-down safety grip of the Disint-o-ghoster as it dragged him across the room like a rodeo rider entangled in the reins of a bronco, still firing randomly at everything.

"Get out of here, Newsie! This isn't safe!" Gina yelled, trying to push her brave journalist toward the exit, but he planted his shoes firmly.

"A good reporter stays with the story!" he shouted back over the eerie, shrieking calls of the _Velocimuppets;_ they seemed to be seeking one another, starting to band together. His research for this report came back to him, and he shuddered, and shoved Gina in return. _"You_ get out! If those things are alive – Just get out, please! I'll –I'll be right behind you!"

And then the enormous _Muppetasaurus Tex_ reared up – no one had realized it preferred hunting on its hind legs – roared so loud everyone in the room who _could_ clapped their hands over their ears, and in one swift, frightening move, it lunged forward, curled its neck down, and swallowed a screaming Fleet Scribbler whole.

 _Then_ all heck broke loose.


	14. Chapter 14

"C'mon, Fozzie, we've missed the opening already!" Rowlf panted, the cool dry air of the Museum a relief after jogging through the already-muggy streets. "Nothing to race for now!"

"Ohhhhhh but I wanted to be dere! Everyone _else_ is dere, even da flu sicky people!" Fozzie argued, stopping in confusion at the top of the stairs, unable to read his map correctly.

Rowlf sniffed the air. "That way, Fozzie," he said, turning the bear in the correct direction.

"Dat says reptiles, Rowlf! Are you sure?"

Rowlf was about to point out the large sign proclaiming FELT AND BONES EXHIBIT THIS WAY when screams and a frightening roar echoed through the entire third floor; patrons on the stairs or browsing in the Hall of African Mammals turned in surprise. Suddenly a Museum guard came sprinting past, a panicked expression turning his face from average into something pale and sickly. Hot on his heels, Sam the Eagle fluttered and stumbled. "Security! Security! Man, don't _run_ from danger! This is your _duty!"_

Neither of them paid any attention to Fozzie or Rowlf, legging it down the stairs. Fozzie sucked a finger apprehensively. "Wow! I didn't know guards were scared of eagles!" he said.

"Uh, I don't think that guy was running from Sam!" Rowlf gulped, and Fozzie whirled to see a tide of people come racing out through the reptile hall. The two friends exchanged a look, and as one fought their way around the panicked professors and squealing old ladies toward the entrance to the new Muppet Natural History exhibit gallery. When they peered inside, Rowlf wasn't sure arriving earlier would have been a better or a worse idea.

The first thing which caught their eyes was the meeping, bouncing, utterly helpless Beaker being dragged across the floor close to the exhibit entry by what appeared to be a very big gun turning red-hot as it sputtered and blasted; Fozzie jerked to one side when a ray narrowly missed him, instead hitting a case of mounted Muppet insects. A giant moth flapped its wings at once and took off; numerous smaller things like winged crayfish shook themselves awake and began crawl-hopping down out of the case with fluttering buzzes of their vestigial beetle-wings. "Aaaa! Bugs!" Fozzie cried, then noticed much _worse_ things were crawling or jumping or thunderously pounding through the gallery. An enormous clawed foot slammed down right in front of him, and the bear gaped up at a bony, elongated skull easily three times his size. Empty holes of eyesockets stared right at him. "Ulk!" Fozzie gulped.

The _Muppetasaurus Tex_ opened its ponderous jaws; four prominent fangs and a bristling mouthful of shorter but equally vicious teeth shook in Fozzie's face as the monster roared. Fozzie's hat flew behind him somewhere. The bear caught a glimpse of a frog trying to hustle a pig toward the far side of the room, and ran toward him, wailing. "Keerrmiiiiiiiiiitt!"

"Whoa!" Rowlf ducked as something not quite bat and not quite lizard swooped overhead, its tiny claws clutching at the air where the dog's nose had been a second before. "What the Jimmy Dean's goin' on here?" the dog griped.

In the middle of the room, Kermit tried to see to Piggy's safety. Unfortunately his wife had other ideas. "Shake your ugly mug at _my_ frog, willya? Hiii— _yaaahh!"_ she cried, chopping one of the snapping, turkey-with-shark-teeth _Velocimuppet_ skeletons over its bony beak. It shrieked, jerking back, but then advanced again. Desperately Piggy spread her arms protectively in front of Kermit, noting two more of the ugly reptilian birds encroaching from the side where they thought she wouldn't notice them. She beat them back, but they weren't giving up. Apparently having no flesh anymore was an advantage; her blows knocked them back but didn't seem to be doing any damage. "What the heck? Are these guys indestructible? I've broken bones before!" Piggy growled, confused.

Bunsen Honeydew put up a helpful finger, dodging another swoop by the bat-lizard. "Technically, Miss Piggy, these are _fossils!_ You see, when a creature becomes entrapped in a wet environment, mineral seepage over _thousands_ of years will eventually fill in the bones as they decompose, leaving a bone-shaped fossil _actually_ made of—"

"Well _whatever_ they're made of, can ya make 'em dead again?" Piggy yelled, kicking another _Velocimuppet._ It croaked and squealed and lunged back at her, toothy beak snapping.

"Oh," Bunsen murmured, one hand to his mouth, worried. "Oh, dear…"

"Keep rolling! Keep rolling!" Rhonda urged, sticking close by the sloth; nervously, the Newsman ducked away from the ponderous tread of a _Muppetasaurus Bovinocorpus_ as it strolled by apparently unconcerned with the chaos. "We're gonna go live, Newsie! Keep talking!"

Newsie clutched Gina, his eyes darting every direction, unwilling to let her go for the sake of the filming. She in return held onto his shoulder, yanking him aside when two white feathery things with long necks and teeth and red wattles chased a bounding, protesting Gonzo past. "Girls! Camilla! Look, I _said_ I thought the new look was sexy! Aaaagh!"

"Er – things seem to have turned _strange_ here at the Museum of Natural History!" Newsie ad-libbed, trying to stay vaguely in front of the sloth's camera.

"Stranger than usual, you mean!" complained a balding, grayhaired gent in a suit far too thick for the weather outside, and more wrinkled than a shar-pei on a diet, standing in the middle of the chaos.

"Statler, you old fool, this isn't the 'Bombshells of '45' exhibit!" His companion, a shorter and even frailer codger, grabbed the official Museum map from the first gent's curled hands. He peered at the map, then thwacked the first man. "You were holding the map upside down, you ninny!"

"Oh…I _thought_ ol' 'Bomber Betty' was taller!" Statler said, eyeing Miss Piggy.

"She wasn't a pig, either, you blind old bat!" Waldorf grumped.

Statler shrugged one shoulder. "Eh, it was the war! I'm sure those flyboys would've painted pork on their bombers!"

"How ya figure?"

"With wartime rations being so strict, _every_ piece of bacon looked good!"

"Oh, ho ho ho ho!"

"Watch it, twerps!" Piggy shouted at them, grabbing one of the _Velocimuppets_ by its snakelike tail and swinging it into another, tumbling them both in a clatter of bones and a shriek of outraged malevolent fossil fury. However, even as she gave Kermit another push toward the exit, the bony monsters shook themselves all over and staggered back to their three-clawed feet with ominous growling clucks.

Kermit pointed out Gil and Jill huddling with the Frog Scouts next to the platform the _M. Tex_ had stood on. "The Scouts! We have to do something!"

"Er…are we live yet?" Newsie asked Rhonda, who was conferring with someone by phone, one paw pressed to her free ear.

"Can ya keep it down? Some of us are trying to make journalistic history here!" the rat shouted at the room in general, then resumed her hurried conversation. "Now? About time! Great! Take the feed!" She snapped her phone shut and gestured at Newsie, addressing the sloth. "Get an earpiece on him! Fargo's at the studio and the truck's here to bounce the feed! Go! Go!"

Dr Honeydew caught up with Beaker, who by bracing himself against one of the large granite pillars in the center of the gallery had at least managed to stop his ungainly and involuntary tour of the exhibit; now he was doing his best to saw through the safety wrist-strap of the Disint-o-ghoster 4000 with a pocketknife held in his mouth. "Beaker! I've got it! I know what's wrong!" Bunsen cried; Beaker stared at him, dazed. "Somehow the neutron polarity has been switched in the _wrong_ direction! All we must do is to _reverse_ the polarity of the neutron flow, and set the Tobin waves down a notch, and assuming the anti-Muppaspectre facilitating engine doesn't—"

At that instant, the barrel of the gun turned white-hot. Beaker shrieked as the safety strap burst into flames, jerking his hands free. With an earsplitting _craaaaack!,_ the core of the Disint-o-ghoster exploded. Shrapnel shot straight up. "…Explode…we should be fine," Bunsen finished lamely; his gaze turned upward with Beaker's at the one Muppasaur anywhere in the gallery which _hadn't_ been animated with a stray shot yet: the Greater Muppassic Muppadactyl skeleton suspended from the high ceiling by airline cables. As the scientists stared in horrified resignation, every single cable holding the fossil up was sliced by a blazing-hot piece of subatomic-reinforced nickel-iron which had seconds previously before _failed_ to contain the explosion. The entire Muppadactyl fell surprisingly gracefully, swooping much like a half-ton pendulum directly onto the heads of the Muppet Labs duo.

As the dust settled around them, Bunsen groaned, "Ouch…"

Beaker agreed with a weak _meep_ before passing out.

"Live, at the Museum of Natural History, this is your Newsman for KRAK," Newsie barked at the camera when Rhonda vehemently gestured at him they were broadcasting directly to the station, where images of this bizarre carnage would be sent out to the entire viewing area. "Er…Bart, are you seeing this?"

A sneering voice came through loud and clear over his earpiece, and Newsie winced. "Looks like the usual Muppet weirdness to me, Newsie. What's the story?" The anchor's tone made it clear he was annoyed at having been dragged away from his brunch date for just another Muppet piece. Angry, the Newsman was about to launch into a curt description of the action so far when Gonzo rode by on the back of one of the altered-state chickens.

"Whooooo— _haaaaa!_ That's it, Camilla! You can beat 'em!" Gonzo yelled, bouncing excitedly like an ostrich jockey; the Muppasaur-throwback bird didn't seem to be racing the other ones hot on her tailfeathers as much as vainly trying to jump up to eat the fearless daredevil, hen's teeth snapping viciously at him.

Gina stared at that, still holding Newsie's shoulder. He tried to regain some appearance of confidence. "Um…well…as you can see, Bart, this is hardly the _normal_ chaos! The scene, in fact, is somewhat grim, with a whole host of ravenous, _reanimated_ Muppasaurs _attacking_ the crowd who'd come to see the opening of the exhibit!" Gina yanked him to one side as the primitive Whatnot shaman glared and pointed their direction, his evil jade eye sparking with energy. "Erk! – and an undead, mysterious _mummy_ is also wreaking a _terrible_ vengeance on the people who dared to ogle him by doing some shameless ogling of his own!" Whatever force the shaman wielded with his evil eye hit the camera aardvark smack in the face, sending him and his camera tumbling right to the feet of the _Muppetasaurus Tex._

"Is this yet another publicity stunt by the Muppets to raise their theatre attendance?" Fargo demanded.

"Bart! People are in real _danger_ here!" Newsie protested.

"There they are! Make them – make them _behave_ like proper _dead_ things!" Sam shouted, one firm wing pointing variously at the Muppasaurs running amok, and the altered chickens now snapping and snarling at Gonzo as he perched precariously atop one of the taller freestanding cases. "Er…and…and proper chickens!"

The Museum guards right behind Sam in the entrance to the gallery stared in complete shock at the scene: Dr Teeth and Zoot were desperately swatting as the crustacean-bugs buzzed and clawed them in what appeared to be an attempt to grab the Muppets' noses. The class of preschoolers, one enormous bird, and one shy pachyderm huddled in a corner, staring with wide eyes, thus far unnoticed by the monsters. The giant moth and the winged lizard were locked in a circle of aerial combat, swooping wildly around the room just above head-height. Two _M. Bovinocorpii_ kept trying to eat the reconstructed, plastic giant Muppafern, mooing unhappily as each bite produced no chewing satisfaction. And Animal and MahnaMahna seemed to be doing the frug just behind the arm-waving, angry-dancing _Muppeti Quidquid._ Sam gestured angrily at the guards. "Well? _Do_ something!"

The shaman noticed him. "Ooogawokka mugga boot!" he screamed, rolling his jade eye at the huge marble pillars framing the gallery entryway. Sam heard the crumble and rumble of rock being forced impossibly from its place and leaped into the room an instant before one of the massive pillars toppled, blocking the entry, trapping the guards outside the room…and everyone else in from that end.

"A _mummy_ coming back to life? Oh, come on, Newsie…wasn't that just a movie?" Fargo asked over the audio feed into Newsie's ear.

Newsie spread his arms, including the room at large in his frustrated gesture. "Bart, I don't pretend to be even _remotely_ qualified to explain this phenomenon—"

"Doo _dooo_ doo doo doo!" Two pink, horned creatures chorused, springing up next to Newsie.

He shoved them aside. "Oh will you get _out_ of here! –-but Bart, I assure you and the viewers, this is _no_ publicity stunt! Somehow, a number of large prehistoric Muppet monsters, most of them with _huge, sharp teeth,_ have animated and are attacking everyone in the room!" Newsie lost the feed for a moment when Gina threw both of them to the floor; another burst of chilly energy shot over them, shattering the remaining glass of another display.

"Hey! _Hey!_ Get me outta here!" a thin, reedy voice shrieked; they looked up to see Fleet Scribbler crouched inside the hollow ribcage of the _M. Tex,_ still alive and apparently unhurt. He began banging on the ribs of the giant carnivorous Muppasaur. The aardvark tilted his camera up, capturing Scribbler's imprisonment…and the monster's irritated reaction. With another earsplitting roar, it shook itself violently, cast about for something to bite, and its open jaws swooped down over the cameramuppet at its feet.

"Jerry! Oh, no!" Rhonda squeaked. The _M. Tex_ gulped the aardvark down; he went sprawling, camera-first, onto the mop-ragged head of one tabloid reporter. The Muppasaur snarled, stomping back across the room, its spiked tail whooshing through the air behind it more than enough discouragement for anyone even thinking about following…not that anyone was. "Jerry! Are you okay?" Rhonda yelled as she saw the aardvark trying to pick himself up within the bony bowels. When he gave her a weak thumb-up, she vented her anger on Scribbler. "Scribbler, you _moron!_ If you've broken my camera, I'll tear it out of _your_ scrawny hide!"

The tabloid hack didn't reply. _He_ wasn't accustomed to having heavy things pound his head.

"Ohmygawd! Ohmygawd! It's gonna _eat me!"_ Rizzo screamed, at about the same time as the much-angered _M. Tex_ was homing in on Statler. The rat bolted this way and that with a snapping _Velocimuppet_ on his tail; seeing Scooter behind one of the walls for the "Timeline of Muppet Evolution" corridor, the rat leaped into his arms. "Save me! I'll give ya all my cheese!"

The _Velocimuppet,_ focused on a tasty rat snack, lunged at him; frightened, Scooter instinctively threw Rizzo. "Aaaaaaaawhatareyou _doing?"_ Rizzo screeched; he bounced off the tall hat and into the broad hands of the Swedish Chef. "Oh my heart," Rizzo panted, but before he could catch his breath, the same singleminded proto-Muppet turkey raced to the Chef, bony beak spread wide with multiple teeth gleaming. "Ohmygawdhereitcomes _again—aaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!"_

"Ooh! Der turken-toofer nooo der snicky-snacky!" Chef exclaimed, hurling the rat back at Scooter, who only just managed to catch him.

"This is Lewis Kazagger with Muppet Sports! An early start to the Muppet International Keep-Away Tourney here at the unlikely venue of the Museum of Natural History! So far the score is Muppets one, vicious fossil monsters nothing! But the _Velocimuppets_ were a species known for their tenacity and fierceness, so it's gonna be a wild contest here today!" Kazagger proclaimed, popping up with a large microphone.

Newsie blinked, eyes wide and jaw slack. "Who the heck is he broadcasting to?"

"This is all _your_ fault, you nearsighted old fraud!" Waldorf complained, shifting around for more elbow room in the ribcage.

"Me? _I_ didn't wave my coat at it, yelling 'Toro, toro!'" Statler grumbled back, trying to free his foot from underneath some sort of long-nosed, shell-less armadillo with a broken camera.

"If you'd _admit_ you need reading glasses, we wouldn't have been here in the first place!"

"That exit's still open!" Kermit pointed out the narrower corridor at the far end of the room to Fozzie and Rowlf. "Get those children out of here! I'll get the Scouts!"

"You got it!" Rowlf promised.

"This is—this is hideous!" Sam stuttered, trotting alongside the dog. Fozzie was already beckoning to the frightened children and their young teachers; the chaperones may have mastered their early education teaching techniques, but nothing they'd learned about ADD, bullying, or cleaning glue spills had prepared them for raging, lunatic Jurassic Muppet carnage. They hustled their charges after the bear and the dog gratefully. Sam brought up the rear of the hasty parade, his sharp gaze swiveling all around as people continued to be chased and snapping, snarling, stomping monsters continued to snap, snarl, and stomp at them. "This is an _outrage! Where_ is the curator? I must protest this ridiculous, _antisocial_ fossil behavior to him at once!"

"Uh, I think dat's him over dere," Fozzie said, nodding briefly at the end of the "Muppet Evolution" display. On the pedestal where Mookie-mookie had been laid in state, Dr Van Neuter writhed and jumped while two of the reverse-DNA-injected chickens, now the size of ostriches and with similarly aggressive attitudes, clawed and pecked at the hapless scientist, yanking out his hair strand by strand as he yelped and swatted vainly at them. Mulch crouched behind one of the display walls, wincing every time his boss cried out.

"Ow! Ow! _Stop_ it! Ow!"

"They're not eating him?" Rowlf wondered, pausing a moment to stare. "What the hey?"

Sam blanched. "Uh…I…I think…they're gathering nest material," he muttered.

He, Fozzie, and Rowlf all shuddered. "Yeeesh…"

"Gil! Jill! This way!" Kermit urged, and the adult frogs saw him, nodded, and began herding the Scouts around the empty platforms toward the unguarded, still-open exit. Kermit felt a tap on his ankle, and jumped. Looking down as he landed, he relaxed as he saw the tiny, fluffy, pink bunny rabbit. "Oh! Geez…uh…do you want to come with us? I'm sure it'd be much safer for you too away from all these Muppasaurs," Kermit offered.

The bunny blinked its adorably large eyes at him, wiggled its whiskers, opened its jaws impossibly wide and lunged at the frog with incisors the size of a sabre-toothed tiger's. _"Aaaack!"_ Kermit yelped. "Piggy!"

"Kermie!" Throwing aside the squealing _Velocimuppet_ she was body-slamming against the floor in an attempt to break its mineralized bones, Piggy waded into the fray.

"It looks as though the _Velocimuppet_ team may be tiring!" Kazagger announced, somehow keeping just out of range of another circling turkeylike monster as his wobbly parsnip of a nose darted one direction and the opposite repeatedly while Rizzo was hurled between Scooter and the Chef, both of whom were ignored by the _Velocimuppets_ as long as the rat was in the air. _"Could_ this spell _defeat_ for the fulminous fossils? _Will_ they come up with a better strategy and stop this ignominious _slaughter?"_

"I'm gonna come up with my _lunch_ in another second," Rizzo groaned, flying limply into Scooter's hands once more. "Ooooohhh…" Scooter, showing some strain now, nearly missed his return throw to the Chef, and then yelped and bolted as the second _Velocimuppet_ finally realized it might make more sense to attack the people _throwing_ the rat than pursuing the rat himself. "Aaagh! Chef! Chef! Do something!" Rizzo squeaked, seeing Scooter flee and the original fossil monster bearing down on the Chef.

"A break for the fossil team! _Finally_ they may be able to even the score!" Kazagger exclaimed, following the action.

"Dude, whose side are you on?" Scott demanded, waving his hands at the Chef. "Here! I'm open! I'm open!"

Gladly, the Chef lobbed the rat underhand and looping high; Scott caught Rizzo and promptly plopped the nauseated rodent atop his six-foot-four head. The _Velocimuppet_ chasing the tasty furball screeched to a floor-gouging halt when Rizzo blew a sloppy raspberry at it; from the monster's perspective, the rat had suddenly vaulted in size, and might present more of a challenge than it wanted. Hissing, it backed away. "Holy cow," Rizzo gasped. "It thought me an' you was da same!"

"Good thing we're both Dodgers fans," Scott said, noting the same jacket on both him and the rat today.

"And that concludes the first game, with the final score Muppets twenty- _seven_ successful passes, _Velocimuppets_ still zero, an _astounding_ phenomenon…er…which… which has not been successfully reached in over _fifty_ years of championship Keep-Away play until now, and you saw it here first, sports fans!" Kazagger said excitedly, doing his best to ignore the singing pink horned things suddenly behind him.

The sloth somehow managed to stay unnoticed as he continued filming; possibly his slow movements made the Muppasaurs doubtful he was actually alive. He focused on the Newsman while Newsie repeatedly dodged and weaved, Gina keeping an eye on the dancing shaman while Newsie doggedly continued his on-the-scene coverage. At least, he noticed when his gaze swept the whole room at one point, his mother had vanished. Probably she'd found the whole event too weird; he wasn't sure he could debate that opinion right now. "The schoolchildren seem to have been safely maneuvered out of harm's way, but that still leaves a great number of us in danger here, Bart, including an entire troop of Frog Scouts and celebrity couple Kermit the Frog and Miss Piggy! Is there any chance of the governor sending state troops to relieve the overwhelmed Museum security staff, Bart?" Newsie asked loudly over the screeches of hunting prehistoric predators.

"Yoo hoo! Ugly!" Janice cooed; Mookie-mookie swung around, tattered brow furrowed. As Janice waved and struck a pose, lifting her skirt to show off a tanned thigh, Floyd reached for Animal's chain and tugged on it.

"Come on, man, snap out of it! You're a drummer, not a backup singer!" Floyd coaxed. Unfortunately, the entranced Muppet growled loudly at his friend, and the shaman whirled back around to find Floyd inches away. "Uh…what's happenin', my ancient and tombalicious grey dude?" Floyd tried, and held up a hand for a jive shake.

The mummy apparently was not a hipster. "Mooga! Unga hoggah mooga _buk!"_ He roared, bringing both hands together in a clapping gesture over his head and glaring at Floyd, then Janice. A line of velvet ropes connected to brass posts swooped across the floor, swiftly wrapping the guitarist and the bassist together and rolling them off to a side wall, where had they not already been close, they would've felt distinctly overcrowded.

Janice sighed, barely able to shake her head. Floyd gave a half-shrug, arms pinned. "Well, good thing we're past the holding-hands stage already," he joked weakly.

Bart Fargo, star anchor, was meanwhile casting doubts on the Newsman's motives. "I haven't heard anything from the governor's office, no. You know, Newsie, I'm sorry but I _have_ to bring up the scene last night which a number of people witnessed, where you allegedly blew up at your girlfriend, and yet isn't that her behind you?"

Newsie glanced at Gina; she gave his hand a squeeze, dispiritedly watching the last of the Mayhem become entrapped in crowd control ropes. "Uh, what has that got to do with any of this?" Newsie glared at the camerasloth. "Tony, are you _getting_ all this?"

"The live feed's good," Rhonda promised him, hovering next to the sloth. "And his name's…oh never mind…"

"Well, we all know the Muppets have a reputation for bizarre, crazy stunts—" Fargo continued.

Right then, the transformed Camilla lolloped past, riding Gonzo, her oversized feet clutching his shoulders as he galloped. "Yeeehaaaa! Okay, can I be the cowboy again now, Camilla? …Camilla? Sweetie?"

"Grrrr-BAWK!"

Newsie, Gina, and Rhonda stared after the pair. "Er…no, Bart; just _that_ guy," Newsie muttered. _"Some_ of us are pretty normal…"

"Mooga-shaka!" Mookie-mookie howled, pointing at the Newsman. Animal and MahnaMahna echoed him loudly, swaying, their arms and legs pumping up and down as they did what looked like a dancercise. _"Mooga-shaka! Mooga-shaka!"_ Gina shoved Newsie out of the way, stumbling; he frantically grabbed at her as she fell, and a high-pitched squeal in his ear made him yelp in pain and dig the audio-feed earpiece out and throw it. He wound up gasping on the floor next to his beloved.

"Newsie!" Gina said, reaching for him. He returned the embrace, relieved to see she didn't look hurt. "Forget the stupid coverage already! This is out of control and we need to get the h—out!" she argued.

"He _what?_ What do you mean? _Live? Now?"_ Rhonda squeaked into her cell phone. Disgusted and astounded, she lowered the phone, staring at Newsie. "That was the station. Bart just broke out in green fur flu…on the air _live."_ She threw her paws in the air. "Sheesh! What _next?"_

 _Next_ came immediately in the form of two of the _Velocimuppets._ One of them veered off at Newsie and Gina, one at Rhonda. "Ack! Why do they _always_ pick the rats? Why?" Rhonda cried, legging it for the huge hollow Muppafern, the only thing nearby which seemed likely to provide shelter she could reach but the snapping, demented bony turkey behind her couldn't. She dove into one of the tiny holes in the fern's trunk just ahead of the surging stretch of fossil neck and a clash of hard teeth. Panting, the news director suddenly realized she might be out of the _Velocimuppet's_ reach, but she was certainly not alone; she looked around in growing apprehension at an entire clan of animate, stuffed creatures which appeared to be the ancient ancestors of Muppet mice, although these things still seemed more reptile than rodent. "Ah…hi, guys," Rhonda said, nervously backing into a fern wall, the creatures sniffing and closing in around her. "Uh…speak English? No? Um—how about mouse? Squeak? Squeaky squeak?" she tried, rummaging through her memory back to foreign-language classes in high school. "No, huh? Um, look, I'm with the local news, maybe I can get you an interview? Ack!"

Across the gallery, three other rodents were experiencing a similar problem. The recent Frog Scouts of small furry persuasion bounded as fast as their tiny legs could carry them, but couldn't keep up with the longer-springing froglets all making a break for the one unblocked exit. "Eep! Eep! Wait!" one of the mice called, but his tiny voice went unheard beneath the roar of the _M. Tex_ shaking its body from side to side in an apparent attempt to shut up the newly-complaining Scribbler trapped in the ribcage under one aardvark, two grumbly old men, and one Museum staffer who hadn't moved fast enough when the enormous mouth opened over him. Melvin the snail, who'd hung back and stared in awe at most of the fast-moving events since the giant Muppasaur had roared its defiance the first time, saw the mice's peril.

"Iiii taaaake it baaaack," he muttered as he scooched across the path the mice had just gone between two broken display cases, laying a trail of slime on the marble floor the instant before the _Velocimuppet_ hit it. Talons skidded, bones slipped, and the Muppasaur went tail-over-beak, crashing into one of the cases. "Yoouuu're noooot soooo cooooll," Melvin sniffed at it. "Yooouuu're juuust a buuuuuuulllyy!"

The vicious predators hadn't even seen the small shelled creature until now. Now…it turned, seeking the voice, and finally located it. Melvin yanked himself into his shell as the _Velocimuppet_ bit down, but the shell crackled dangerously under the tremendous pressure of the strong teeth. "Heeeeellllpp!" the snail yelled.

His lower voice carried where the mice's high-pitched squeals hadn't. Robin and Dill, both at the rear of the Scouts to usher the younger ones ahead, heard and whirled around. Robin gasped. "Oh no! Melvin!"

"The mice!" Dill agreed, shocked, seeing their newer members all in trouble. The two raced back the way they'd come, into danger's reach.

"Robin! Dill! Keep away from those monsters!" Kermit yelled, jerking aside when the violent pink bunny growled and tried another leaping lunge at his face. "Someone! Get that snail!"

"Ungh! You leave him— _alone,_ you horrible – _ergh!—_ beast!" Piggy shouted, but even her best karate chops missed the wildly hopping rabbit.

Rowlf and Fozzie, at the doorway to help usher the scouts out of the exhibit hall, stared in surprise at the sight of their friend and employer bouncing higher and higher, equaled by the lightly springing bunny with ridiculously long teeth. "Good grief! I think that thing's rabid!" Rowlf exclaimed.

Scooter, his lungs and legs hurting, joined them, and stared as well. "Uh…no. Its eyes aren't googly enough to be a Rabbid…" he opined weakly.

"Get 'em, guys!" Robin whooped, leaping upon the _Velocimuppet_ attacking Melvin. With croaking war cries, several of the older Frog Scouts followed his example, grabbing bony shoulders and legs and ribs, pulling and kicking and pounding with tiny frog fists. Dill scooped up the mice, hustling them to the relative safety of the exit and the adult troop leaders, who looked on in horror, separated from their brave little frogs by two of the mutated chickens fighting with another of the fierce fossils as the monsters ranged all over the back section of the gallery. The Scouts kept up the assault, perplexing the _Velocimuppet;_ it screeched in protest, shaking itself, hopping from one foot to the other, trying to scratch at them, but the troop clung tight. It dropped Melvin to try and bite the frogs; the snail hustled out of the way at a full-throttle half-mile an hour. "Yeah! Take that! and _that!"_ Robin shouted, kicking repeatedly at the thing's ribs, ducking its beak. Suddenly the entire thing shivered and collapsed into a pile of quivering bones. The froglets froze, surprised. Everyone turned to look at Ribsy the toad, who blinked slowly at them, and held up a small triangular bone.

"Duh…lynchpin bone," he croaked.

Robin cheered. The other scouts took up the cry, peeping and ribbiting happily. "Yeah! _Yayyyy_ Ribsy!"

Their joy didn't last. The bones began to reassemble before their stunned eyes. The shuddering fossil resumed its upright stance, the beak darting down and grabbing the bone from a frozen Ribsy, tucking it back into its spine near the neck. "That didn't work! Run, everybody!" Robin cried, and the troop took to their flippers again.

As Gina ducked and darted around broken cases and half-collapsed portable walls, pulling Newsie along by one hand, she saw Mookie-mookie distracted by something in the center of the room, where Kermit was leaping in the air in some sort of contest with a pink bunny rabbit and Piggy's powerful kicks could be glimpsed behind the _M. Tex_ lumbering into a better angle of attack on the pig. Was the shaman directing the Muppasaur? Hard to tell – but he wasn't paying attention to anything else! She halted their flight, yanking a startled Newsman almost off his feet as she dropped into a crouch behind a tall platform. "Newsie!" she hissed, "Look! None of them can see us here!"

Trying to pant silently, he peered around the corner. "Good," he said weakly, slumping to the floor. "This is insane…"

Gina studied the angle, the distance. "I think I can sneak up on him. If I can get close enough and yank out that d—d eyeball, maybe I can stop _him,_ at least!"

"Gina, no!" Newsie said, shocked. "There's no way you can do it!"

She looked around warily; in every direction, ancient Muppet creatures still ran, flew, crawled, and chased. The mummy shaman chanted, waving his arms over his head, and the rumble of support pillars throughout the room made her and Newsie shudder. "There's no telling what he'll do next!" she whispered heatedly. "Sounds like he'd be happy burying the whole d—d Museum along with himself again!"

"Gina!" Newsie gasped, grabbing her arm, shaking his head. "No, you can't! I couldn't…I can't lose you!"

She stopped, meeting his worried stare, then drew him close for a deep kiss. "I love you, Aloysius. I'm not going anywhere without you."

He held her tight, fervently returning the kiss. They pulled just far enough apart to breathe, both short of air and tense. Gina brushed his prominent nose with her own smaller one. "Together, then."

He heaved for breath, trying to steel his nerves. But if his beloved could dare this…how could he stay behind? He nodded at her, holding her gaze. "Together."

Gina gave him a silent finger-count the same way the floor manager would on the news set: _three…two…one!_ They sprang up, running as quietly as they could the few steps to the terrible Mookie-mookie and his even worse backup singers. A second before they reached him, the shaman sensed something, and started to turn.

 _"_ _Hey, stupid!"_ Newsie shouted before Gina could, startling her as well as the mummy. He ran past it, turning to pull his mouth open even wider with his fingers, sticking his tongue out. "Bllleaaahh! You couldn't hit the broad side of a gravestone, you ugly—"

"Oooongrah fugguh muh!" Mookie-mookie yelled, throwing his arm forward threateningly – and Gina snatched the jade eyeball out of the withered socket. _"Ragguh-puh!"_ the mummy howled, waving its arms wildly.

A small shockwave of force hit Newsie, sending him sprawling into the tail of the _Muppetasaurus Tex_. The beast snarled, automatically smacking its tail; fortunately the spikes missed, but the thick, bony part of the elongated spine made contact. _"Whoof!"_ Newsie choked, the wind knocked from his chest, landing hard against a pillar by the exit to the gallery.

Scooter nodded at him, still winded himself. "Nice distance!" Zoot and Dr Teeth, wheezing, clinging weakly to one another and still looking green around the edges, made room for Newsie in the exitway. They'd finally managed to fight free of the nose-pinching crawdad-bugs, but were too ill from the lingering flu aftereffects to do much else.

Mookie-mookie shouted and pounded his feet on the floor angrily. "Mookaka baroo foogah shaka-laka!" He swiped at Gina, but his depth perception was off. She stepped back, but then Animal grabbed her leg.

"Aaaaa! Wo-man!"

"Eeek!" Desperate to keep the eyeball out of the shaman's reach, Gina threw it over his head at a man in a large collar with buggy eyes. "Hey fish-guy! Catch!"

"Ooouhhh _okay!"_ Lew Zealand agreed enthusiastically. He palmed the heavy eyeball, feinting left and right as MahnaMahna raced over and jumped up and down trying to steal it back. "Heh heh! Catch, cook!" He lobbed it over to the Chef, who protested.

"Oom nut er kook! Oom uss noormal uss der eenywuns!"

"Aaaaaand the second round of the International Keep-Away Games is _on!"_ Lewis Kazagger shouted, suddenly in the midst of it again. "This time it's the Muppets versus the Munificent Mummy Muggers! This might not be a fair fight, since the Muppet team has brought in a ringer who has at least two feet over most of the other players!"

Animal rushed the Chef, growling, and the frightened Chef tossed the eyeball back at Lew. "So far the score is two and oh for the Muppets! _Can_ they repeat their earlier victory or will _this_ be the match that stops their relentless advance?" Kazagger commented, avidly watching the tosses back and forth. Gina tried to break away from the contest, but Mookie-mookie grabbed her arm, chanting at her. However, he immediately jerked back in pain; she felt heat around her neck, and realized with a start that her copper bead necklace was _humming._

 _Oh my gosh…is his energy the same kind as Newsie's? Just…better directed at chaos-causing?_ she wondered. Whatever the case, the mummy, frustrated at not being able to touch her without consequences, went into a hopping rage, and Gina quickly scrambled out of the way.

Newsie saw the last part of that from across the room, relieved when it seemed the horrible dead thing couldn't harm her. He shook his head in amazement as Kazagger continued to narrate the eyeball keep-away contest. Scooter asked, "How does he manage to just _be_ there when sports happen?"

"Search me," Newsie grumbled, not without admiration. "Wish he'd teach it to me…that would come in really handy for news reports!"

Another bone-rattling roar from the _M. Tex_ made everyone jump. The thing loomed over Piggy, and the remaining _Velocimuppet_ still stubbornly snapping at her gave up, backing off before the much larger beast. Unsure whether she could afford to give it her full attention, Piggy glanced from it to Kermit; her frog still dodged and bounced and panted around the room, going in random directions to try and throw off the killer rabbit, but the springy pink thing wouldn't relinquish its pursuit. "Kermie?" she called. "I may have a _teensy_ problem…"

"Same here!" Kermit yelled back, turning in midair to see what she was dealing with now. All in one glance he took in the gigantic fossil with its ribcage full of uncomfortable people all being knocked around when it moved into a position to try and add Piggy to that total…and his nephew and the rest of the Scouts backing toward the exit with what looked like all of the _Velocimuppets_ trailing them hungrily. "Oh good grief!" he cried, ducking when the rabbit lunged at him again. "Piggy! Robin!"

"Out! Everybody out!" Rowlf yelled.

"Gina!" Newsie called at the same instant.

She waved him off. "I'm fine! Go! Go!"

Oh, he hated that idea. However, the ring of _Velocimuppets_ closed in swiftly, coordinating finally, the flock herding the Muppets not tied up or trapped elsewhere in the room all toward the exit doorway. _If these things get into the rest of the Museum…if they get OUT of the Museum-! No, no!_ Frightened, Newsie could all too easily imagine what those razor-claws and vicious teeth would do to any non-Muppets they encountered…and he doubted they would turn to dust if caught outside in full daylight, as the Museum's inhabitants had in the movie. _We can't let them out! We can't!_

He voiced these fears as the Frog Scouts edged past him. "Those things will destroy the city if they get loose!"

"They'll destroy _us_ if _we_ don't get out!" Scooter argued, backing away. The _Velocimuppets_ chirped and growled oddly among themselves. Newsie didn't like that one bit…they were communicating…planning.

"Split up!" Rowlf suggested – and then the lead monster leaped at the terrified Muppets.

The group charged along the hallway. A stairwell opened down and up just past the gallery on the right, but Fozzie had heard the Newsman and knew he was right. "Not down dere!" he shouted, directing everyone past the stairs instead. "Dere's innocent people down dere! We can't let dese monsters loose!"

"Wish we had some of _our_ monsters!" Rowlf panted, casting a disappointed look down the stairs as he ran past. "Where they heck are they, anyway?"

"Monster-petting therapy at the Shadows on the Dial Happy Home for the Dangerously Senile," Scooted puffed back. "It's supposed to be good for the old folks…"

At the top of the stairs, a purplish Muppet with a stringy mustache and dreads and a leather-clad prawn, both in dark clothes and bad moods due to the guards at the Columbus Avenue entrance to the Museum having forced them to leave their double-jolt cups of coffee behind, paused to stare at the river of small frogs and larger Muppets who pounded past them, not even noticing. A few paces behind, six monsters consisting of toothed beaks, long sleek bodies with no skin or flesh of any sort over their dark bones, and enormous claw-toes propelling them forward raced in the Muppets' wake. The last of these turned its skeletal head to shriek at the visitors on the stairs, but didn't slow, and in a moment all were out of sight.

Clifford blinked. Slowly he looked down at Pepe, who returned his slack-jawed, weary-eyed stare. "Maaaaaannnn," Clifford sighed, "it is _waaaaayyy_ too early for this stuff!"

"You said it, amigo," the king prawn agreed. In perfect synch, they pulled out their shades and donned them, and turned as one to slouch downstairs and back home to bed. "Do you think that blonde from last night will call me? She has my number," Pepe wondered as they trudged down the stairs.

"Man, only because you scotch-taped it to her wrist! You have _got_ to give it up, Pepe!"

"Hey, right now I don't gots to do _nothing_ but get some sleep. Hey, we should go clubbing more often, you know? I gets more free drinks with you around!"

"Uh, only if you promise to stop climbing _into_ girls' drinks…"

Kermit was only slightly relieved to see several of the more responsible Muppets leaving with the Scouts; there was still little he could do with this blasted rabbit on his heels, and the crazed thing didn't seem to be tiring…unlike him. Meanwhile he could see Piggy squaring off against the _M. Tex._ She made a feint to the left, then swung out a leg in a fast foot-sweep; the Muppasaur snarled, stepping back surprisingly sprightly, and lashed its tail at her in return. It missed. The two circled one another, sizing up postures and possible weaknesses. "Come on, ya big bony loser, ya want a piece of me, you're gonna have to do better than that!" Piggy growled. It growled back, and tried a bite, but Piggy expected that and dove to one side, then stomped hard on the thing's bony big toe. It snatched its foot out of the way with a low grunt. Kermit could only focus on his own contest, despairing; he knew Piggy had enormous reserves of strength and determination, but these things seemed unstoppable…and sooner or later the Muppets' energy would run dry…

Newsie veered right when the Frog Scouts did, running through a hall of stuffed birds behind glass while the other Muppets kept going straight into the Eastern Woodland Indian exhibit. He tried to recall the exact layout of this floor; with the entry to the Muppet exhibit blocked, there was no longer a complete circuit to be made without going up or downstairs…but… When Robin and Dill finally paused, panting, at the door at the far end of the Hall of African Mammals with its now-famous lion pride motionless in the center, he was able to catch up with them, but saw three of the _Velocimuppets_ pacing through the bushes, closing in. "We can't lead these things down into all the people!" Robin gasped, seeing the main stairs just ahead.

"They're right behind us! What'll we do?" Jill croaked.

"Well we're not taking the ad account for this place, that's for sure," Gil groaned. "This is a PR catastrophe!"

"Mom, Dad, we're being chased by Muppasaurs! A little _focus,_ please?" Dill begged.

"Go straight," Newsie directed. "Next room!"

"But – but isn't that the scary snake room?" one of the other Scouts asked, shivering.

Robin glanced at Newsie, realizing what he had in mind. "That's where the live frog exhibit is!"

"Go hide!" Newsie urged. "Climb in the tanks if you have to! Maybe they won't pay attention to regular frogs!"

"Right!" Robin cried. "Come on! Hop, everyone! Hop!"

A cavalcade of frogs, two toads, and three mice made a last-ditch run for the long Hall of Reptiles and Amphibians just around the corner from the grand stairs. Gil paused, looking back at the Newsman. "But…you're not a frog! Where will _you_ hide?"

Whoops…


	15. Chapter 15

Nothing moved in the long galleries full of waxen people.

The trio of _Velocimuppets_ prowled slowly, chirp-growling to one another: _Not here. Not there. Nothing to report._ Had they been able to sniff anything still, the Muppets hidden cleverly among the displays of Eastern Woodland and Great Plains natives would've been detected; even when alive, though, the skulking, vicious turkey-monsters had largely relied on their keen eyesight, and the one pacing remorselessly right past Scooter and Zoot paused only a moment to peer at them before continuing on through the gallery. Scooter kept his eyes open straight ahead, wondering how long he could do this before they started to water; so far, his hastily-donned costume of moccasins, a buckskin loincloth, an eagle feather stolen from Sam (with an indignant but quickly shushed protest), and absolutely _nothing_ else seemed to be concealing him from harm. For Zoot, staying motionless wasn't normally difficult…he spent a great deal of time napping or zoning out to the sweet sounds in his head…but this porcupine-quilled buckskin tunic sure did _itch._

Another fossil Muppasaur paused, looking over the tableaux of the legendary Chief Sitting Blue Eagle and his faithful horse next to his grassland teepee with its buffalo-skin cover. It wasn't educated in the eras which had passed after its death, and so didn't realize that horses didn't usually have brown curly fur under their blankets, or short wet noses…or that buffalo-skin throws weren't made of light brown fur in a vaguely bear-hugging-tent shape. Irritated, Sam blew a stray feather off his nose. The _Velocimuppet_ growled, whirling, and Rowlf and Fozzie tensed, ready to flee or scream or both, as the monster examined Sam closely. The eagle stared straight ahead impassively, his wooden personality for once an asset. Eventually another _Velocimuppet_ called, and the one glaring at Sam stepped lightly out of the display, hurrying to its comrade. Sam let out the breath he'd been holding. "Weirdo," he whispered contemptuously.

In the adjacent Hall of Pacific Peoples, the third _Velocimuppet_ stalked among a large central display of a potlatch ceremony, complete with a pit-smoker, a long table piled high with conch and fish on palm leaves, and the village cook stirring the pit coals, near the gold-toothed chief in a wild headdress of palm leaves and wearing a strange gourd in an even stranger place. The monster turned its head this way and that, peering with its empty eyesockets at each figure in turn among the many gathered for the waxen feast. Moving on uncertainly, it reached the back wall of the Museum; frustrated, it screeched like a bird of prey, calling the others in this wing. The predators gathered, held a quick conference, then began moving slowly back the way they'd come, peering at everything again. When they'd moved out of the Pacific Peoples gallery, Dr Teeth sighed very, very quietly.

"Borkey-borkey nut uppen-givun," the Swedish Chef observed, hanging on to the giant wooden spoon he was posing with, wondering if it would be sturdy enough to bowl over a borkey-fossillum. He'd had to give up his part in the keep-away game when one of the ugly borkeys had snickersnacked at him, and he'd barely escaped.

"Man, this is righteously _wrong,"_ the good Doctor grumbled. "Are you abso-positively-for- _sure_ that this get-up is authentic? This modesty- _un_ enhancing dried vegetable is definitely the weirdest thing I have _ever_ been involved with – and that _includes_ the radish-playing flying squirrel act last year!"

"Der squishy-squashen maken verbiggens der yonson," the Chef offered before the monsters returned. Both of them froze once again, and the angry _Velocimuppets_ swung their bony heads all around but couldn't detect any differences between the wax figures of Polynesian tribesmen and the Muppets posing as such…so they began toppling over everything.

Dr Teeth calculated the approximate distance to the doorway; only one way into or out of this particular gallery. How fast would he be able to run in this costume – or was it worth the embarrassment of throwing one particular part of it aside to run faster? The decision of when he should make like a tree and leave was abruptly forced the instant the Chef, still suffering the green fur aftereffects, sneezed loudly. Fake palm fronds, bits of green fur, and an inexplicable amount of paprika flew into the air; the trio of _Velocimuppets_ screamed wildly and scrambled to attack, claws gouging the platforms, teeth bared all too eagerly. Grabbing a woven reed cloth off the table as he tossed aside the gourd, Dr Teeth fled, the Chef right after him, and three extremely furious fossils hot on their grass-clad behinds.

 _"_ _Unnngh!"_ Miss Piggy almost didn't dodge the stomping, enormously-clawed back foot of the _Muppetasaurus Tex_ in time, and felt the downdraft whooshing her hair into her face. She puffed it out of her eyes, though a stray golden lock clung to her snout, and when the Muppasaur roared in frustrated foamlust at her, she hurled one of the brass posts with a velvet rope still chained to it directly into its mouth. "Ha! Ha ha! Chew on that, you bigmouthed bonehead!" she yelled hoarsely.

"Good job, Piggy!" Kermit shouted, kicking off the vast teeth of the tiny _Muppalepus Snarlodontus_ when it snapped at him midair. Stunned, it knocked against one of the half-destroyed walls of the Muppet Evolution Corridor, but then righted itself and came after the frog with a furry vengeance. Piggy's triumph faltered when the _M. Tex_ bit down with enough force to bend the metal post. Snarling, it shook its mighty jaws, and the ruined crowd-control accessory sailed across the room.

"Whoa-ho-ho! Hey, careful!" Lew Zealand chuckled, ducking the crumpled post. He waved the jade eyeball at Gina. "Your turn!"

Gina shoved the wriggling, jumping MahnaMahna aside again and jogged back two steps to catch Lew's throw; he seemed to have the worst aim she'd ever seen outside of junior high gym class. Quickly she unshod her dress sandals from her feet; the shoes were cute, but provided no traction on the sleek marble floor of the exhibit hall. As the furry Muppet rushed her once again, she planted a firm kick in the center of his cylindrical chest to send him flying right into Animal's mouth. "This can't go on forever! We need to get this thing farther away from _him!"_ Gina shouted, pointing at the enraged prehistoric Muppet shaman.

Kazagger whisked to her side. "A break in the action! Tell us, Miss Broucek, how long were you in training for this match? Aren't you enjoying an _unfair_ advantage over the much shorter members of the Mummy Muggers team?"

Gina stared at him. "For crying out loud, Lewis! Did you forget to put your brain in this morn-aaack!" Animal grabbed her leg, nearly pulling her down.

"Wo-man! Wo-man! Mooga-shaka!"

"Oooh! A _tremendous_ tackle for the Mummies! How _will_ the Muppet team pull free of this one?"

Desperately, Gina lobbed the eyeball high; she groaned in despair when the flying lizard-bat thing snatched it out of the air. However, the giant moth hadn't abandoned its quarrel with the flying Muppasaur over sovereignty of the skies (or at least, of the space overhead in the gallery) and immediately crashed into it; knocked loose, the jade eyeball fell – into the grasping hands of Mookie-mookie. "Moooooga-shaka!" he crowed. He lifted it toward his empty socket – and a wet fish smacked it from his hand. "Uh-urrgh?"

"Hee hee haw haw haw!" Lew Zealand chortled; the fish thwacked back into his palm, and he retrieved the eyeball from its mouth. "Good one, Muskie Ed!"

Kazagger, nonplussed, looked from the madly hopping mummy to Lew waving his talented fish in one hand and the eyeball in the other. "I have _no_ idea how the scoring will go on _that,_ but the ball is back in the Muppets' hands! Amazing!"

Gina kicked Animal off her leg, but then tripped backwards trying to get away from the persistent drummer. Her wrist cracked in pain when she landed on it, attempting to break her fall. _"Aaaaah!"_ As she winced, tears blurring her vision involuntarily, a large oblivious thing hove into view right above her. Gina rolled to one side an instant before the lumbering _Muppetasaurus Bovinocorpus_ wandered through. She lay gasping on the floor, and the Muppasaur simply stopped where she'd been a moment before…and chewed what appeared to be mashed bits of green, flimsy plastic, its heavy jaws crushing the material methodically as it stood placid as a rock, blocking her view of both Mookie-mookie and Lew. "Don't let him get that eyeball back!" she cried as loud as she could to whomever might still be playing on her team, then edged herself away from the clueless cow-Muppasaur, holding her left wrist against her chest. _This is insane! Hope Newsie's in better shape…_

The Newsman crouched behind the balustrade at the far side of the main stairs, panting silently, his brain racing. If he ran downstairs – or up – those things would surely follow, and he'd be endangering who knew how many innocent people? If he bolted for the reptile hall he'd be spotted fairly easily. He couldn't double back through the African Mammal room, as the monsters were just now lightly stalking through the doorway: he could hear the clicking of their sharp claws on the floor as they advanced. This tiny section of corridor he'd ducked down into was a dead end. If even one of those things came around _this_ end of the staircase instead of turning toward the right side…

One did.

It screeched, spotting him instantly. It leaped at him, claws outstretched to snare, teeth spread wide to tear. Unable to move fast enough to escape, Newsie tried to dodge to his right, instinctively raising his left arm to block the thing from his face. The impact slammed him to the floor; he gasped, struggling up, expecting to find his arm gone, he couldn't feel it, he must be in shock –

His arm was fine. The Muppasaur staggered, dazed, flexing its bony beak. Before Newsie could process this, the thing shook itself, growl-chirped, and lunged again. Again, he threw up his left arm, crying out, cringing – and again, felt a heavy collision which knocked him back. Blinking, terrified, he looked up; his arm was whole, and several teeth now littered the floor. The _Velocimuppet_ stared at him eyelessly, its beak somewhat less bristling with incisors than before. _What the HEY?_

Another of the turkeylike monsters, attracted by the noise, lunged at him; this time Newsie didn't flinch away, and saw the predator clamp its jaws over his upraised arm – and saw the glow of light around his wrist even as the force of the impact shoved him back. _The bracelet? Is that the bracelet? They can't touch me because of that?_ In growing excitement, he staggered to his feet, two of the things facing off against him; the first one tried again to bite him, singleminded, and he swung his left arm at it, his legs braced for the impact this time. Shrieking, it skidded back a few feet, raking scars in the floor with its hooked toes. Immediately the other one came at him from a different angle, and Newsie blocked with his right arm – and the vicious beak chomped him.

Screaming in pain, Newsie fell, feeling it tearing his felt _through_ his coat and shirt; it was trying to twist its beak, digging its teeth in, oh dear god the pain, his foam, it would chew through to his _foam –_ Newsie desperately smacked it over the beak with his left forearm. With a choked cry, it released him.

Gulping, Newsie sprang up, throwing himself into the wall on his right as the Muppasaur lunged at him. His shoulder bounced painfully off it, but the monster missed. He ran, heading back for the African Mammal room – maybe he could climb a model tree? could these things climb? he hoped not – but the largest of the three _Velocimuppets_ now all orienting on him leaped onto the thick railing overlooking the staircase, launching itself off and landing smack in the doorway to that room. Newsie's shoes squeaked loudly on the floor, skidding to an ungraceful halt, and he frantically backed away. They closed in, toothy beaks clacking, little foreclaws flexing eagerly, oh god, they would shred him, they would sink their horrible teeth into him, no way he could fend them all off even with Gina's charm; they would devour him piece by—

His elbow banged something that dinged. A door slid open behind him. An elevator!

The Newsman glanced inside: empty. What if he could – no. _This is crazy! I'm no action hero!_

The _Velocimuppets_ closed in, certain of their meal. The one in the lead ground its jaws at him. Only a second to judge the distances – _oh good grief, I'm no athlete! I can't do this!_ _Oh, Gina!_ Desperately, at the same instant all three monsters surged forward, Newsie leaped inside the elevator, grabbing the safety rail inside and hauling himself up with all his might, terror overcoming his pain. The Muppasaurs crowded in, knocking into one another in enraged confusion. Momentum carrying him, Newsie bounded off the high shoulderbone of one of them, kicking _up,_ and his fingertips barely caught the edge of the crossbrace in the low ceiling of the car. One of the _Velocimuppets_ snapped at his shoes; he kicked it away, crying out in fear. Straining, he pulled his lower body up, clinging to the crossbrace, and fumbled several times at what looked like a latch in the ceiling. Shrieking, the monsters jumped at him, beaks snapping inches below him each time, and his entire body cringed upwards. "Please…open…open… d— it, _open!"_ he cried, and finally his grasping fingers closed over the latch and he pulled it as hard as he could. With a creaking, metallic groan, a section of the ceiling wedged open. Trembling with effort, Newsie worked both hands into it, grabbed the outer edge of the maintenance hatch, and hauled. His left foot slipped, and one of the _Velocimuppets_ gladly leaped up, its toothy beak clamping on his shoe. _"Aaaaghh!"_ he screamed, trying to kick it loose with his other shoe. "Aaagh—aaaghh— _aaaaah!"_ One final, panicked kick knocked a fang out, and the Muppasaur screeched in protest, dropping to the floor. Newsie yanked his legs up before the others could repeat the stunt, and slowly crawled out of the elevator onto the top of the car.

He lay there gasping on his back, his glasses streaked with his tears, dully noticing the blood staining his coat. _Oh great. Another one ruined._ This was so incongruous, so ridiculous a concern at the moment, he almost started laughing despite the sensation of his right arm being on fire. He wondered briefly how deep the wound was. At least he could still move it. He could hear the monsters snapping and fighting below, trying to pursue, unable to jump high enough – although if even one of them, by design or chance, happened to jump up on the back of another as he himself had done, they would surely reach the hatch. He rolled over, daring a look back inside the car, flinching when all three of the monsters went into enraged, snarling jumps at seeing him.

This wouldn't last long. He could shut the hatch – but then what was there to keep them from bouncing out of the elevator and going after the Frog Scouts again? Or accidentally sending the elevator to another floor, where they would chase and violently rend anyone they found, Muppet or human? He could see the oversized buttons on the elevator wall; he was no athlete, but…

Newsie pulled off one shoe, aimed for the buttons, and threw. One of the _Velocimuppets_ intercepted it with its teeth, slashing it with a few angry bites. The others, thinking the monster had acquired some tasty treat, banged into it, snarling, shrieking in jealous hunger. One of them shoved another into the floor buttons. With a sickeningly cheerful _ding,_ the car began to move upward. Hurriedly Newsie yanked off his other shoe, grunting in pain at forgetting and using his right hand, realized he might only have a second before the Muppasaurs finished fighting over the first shoe, and threw hard.

The elevator groaned to a halt between floors, the emergency stop engaged when his shoe hit it. _Oh thank frog for heavy wingtips,_ he thought, collapsing atop the car again. As an afterthought, he kicked the hatch shut, hurting his sock-clad foot; he didn't stop until he heard the d—d thing lock. He lay there, gasping, eyes closed, nerves twanging, pain throbbing in his arm and now his foot as well. _Gina. You left Gina back there!_ Unhappily he wrested himself to a sitting position, peering up in the dark shaft. Tiny guide-lights went the rest of the distance up along a metal ladder set into a vertical niche of one wall, running aloft to the fourth-floor doors. He had no idea if he had the strength to open them, much less to climb a ladder like this…but what if she was in worse danger? What if the other _Velocimuppets_ had doubled back into the exhibit hall? What if the _other_ weird things loose in there attacked her, even if the mummy couldn't?

It took him almost five long minutes to climb less than half a level up and wrench open the doors to the fourth floor. He groaned, pulling himself through the opening right before the self-closing doors clamped shut again, and knelt on the cool marble, his bleeding arm numb, his hair falling between his eyes and his glasses. Worry for his beloved spurred him into motion once he'd caught his breath a little. Carefully brushing his hair out of his face with his left hand, he looked blearily up. A menacing figure in a black shroud loomed over him.

Newsie choked. He didn't have enough air in his exhausted lungs to scream.

The scaly mice surrounded Rhonda, continuing their chant; although she was relieved they seemed to be revering her as royalty, the repetitive, scratchy-squeaky voices really got on her nerves after a while. "Okay, guys, it's been real, but I should probably see what's going on out—hey!" She smacked the paws trying to groom her short blonde hair. "I do _not_ have fleas! Knock it off!" The primitive creatures kept bowing and chanting, and now one of them was – ughh! "Stop that! Stop licking those! Dang it, you stupid stone-age rodents, those are _Jimmy Choos!"_

"Ohh- _weee_ -ohhh… _lowww-_ dohh…" Sheesh. Even the one trying to caress her hair wouldn't stop chanting.

Still, she reflected glumly, judging by the noises still crashing and roaring in the gallery just outside this tiny haven, it could be worse. As long as the idiot still slurping a long slimy tongue over her 6-mm heels didn't bite off the cute bows on the toes… Sighing, she leaned against the trunk wall, wondering how everyone else was coping.

"Here! Lew, you rag-arm, throw it _here!"_ Rizzo yelled, waving wildly at the bewildered fish-boomeranger as Mookie-mookie closed in on him.

"And with their ringer _out_ of the game, the Muppet team seems to be in real trouble!" Kazagger commented. "It's Lew Zealand with the pump-fake while _both_ the unappetizing, undead ubermummy and crowd favorite MahnaMahna seem poised to take the ball, and the lead, away!"

A startled Lew whirled to see the shaggy singer indeed about to pounce on him, and stumbled aside just in time to avoid being grabbed. "Mooga-shaka!" MahnaMahna yelled in frustration.

One Snowth looked at the other, puzzled. "Doo doo…doo doo doo?" it wondered. The other one looked around, then shrugged. Shaking their heads, the two creatures turned around to watch Gonzo being repeatedly flogged over the head by something which might once have been a chicken, wielding a dazed prehistoric Muppet purple centipede like a thresher.

"Aagh! Ow! Sweetie! I didn't mean it like _that!_ You look butch in a _good_ way!" Gonzo cried.

"Dang it, whaddaya got, a fish in yer ear? I'm _open!"_ Rizzo shrieked as loud as he could, and finally Lew noticed him and Scott both gesturing, the rat standing on tiptoe atop Scott's head.

"Wuh-huh-huh! Aaaookay! Heeeere it comes!" Lew yelled gleefully, and hurled the jade eyeball. It sailed up, up, up – Rizzo waved his paws in the air, trying to judge the landing, Scott backed up, then veered to the right, then left.

"A high fly eyeball to right field! And the rat goes back back back back-"

"I got it! I got it! I-whooofff!" The heavy stone eyeball thunked right into the glove Rizzo held, the weight of it slamming him instantly backwards to the floor. "Sheesh," the rat muttered, dazed, struggling to get out from under the eyeball. "Great throw, Figuerola." Scott turned to help, but before he could reach the shot-putted Rizzo, a red, furry drummer barreled past him, knocking him down.

"Eye- _ball!_ Eye- _ball!"_ Animal howled, his hands reaching for Rizzo, his mouth open wide, eyes blankly staring. A few feet away, Lew watched in dismay, Mookie-mookie jumped up and down yelling in apparent triumph, and Gina tried to pull herself up by hauling with her uninjured arm on one of the few display stands still actually standing. Rizzo yelped, seeing the entranced Animal bearing down on him.

"Hey! Ack! Buddy! Animal! C'mon! Friends! Animal, _friends!_ It's Rizzo! Oh geez please snap out of it—"

Kermit tried to twist in midair to escape another lunge by the psychotic pink bunny rabbit, and very nearly hit the swinging skull of the _M. Tex_ as it reared up for another bite at Piggy. "Kermie!" she shouted, more afraid for her frog than for herself; she could see how tired he was, how each bounce fell lower and lower. However, the bunny's course-correction sent it right over the nose of the giant Muppasaur…and the _M. Tex_ took offense at all these small jumping things distracting it from its succulent pig meal.

One amazingly fast _SNAP_ , and the prehistoric carnivorous rabbit suddenly found itself inside the huge mouth, teeth penning it in on three sides. Kermit bounced twice more, hardly able to grasp what he was seeing; Piggy caught him, quickly swinging him out of harm's way behind a platform. The _M. Tex_ tilted its massive head back like a duck taking a drink of water, and one confused sabre-toothed bunny tumbled down the hollow neck-cage and onto Waldorf.

"Ah! Statler! They're trying to cram more of 'em in here!" the old man protested loudly.

"Hey! Hey you, frog! What're you trying to do to us, create a Jurassic trash compacter?" Statler called down from the ribcage. Then the bunny recovered what wits it had, and snarled at the old men on the top of the heap. "Aaahhhh! Get us out! Get us out!"

"Attica! Attica!" Waldorf howled, grabbing something and knocking it back and forth across several ribs in a row. The Muppasaur roared, shaking itself, upending the rabbit again.

"Blleeeaaghh!" Fleet Scribbler gulped, weakly trying to pry free of the crazy old man. "That's my _head,_ gramps!"

Kermit's head jerked around when a group of Muppets led by Dr Teeth raced back into the room, all clothed in questionable native disguises. "Hey, my main frog! Get outta the way if you don't want to become next on the menu!" the musician yelled, Scooter, Rowlf, Sam, and Zoot swift of feet in his wake, scattering throughout the exhibit gallery. Kermit looked at all of them, panic rising: where were the Frog Scouts? Before he could ask, three of the fast, angry _Velocimuppets_ charged in, screeching, splitting up and pursuing their frantic prey.

 _"_ _RRRRAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUGGGHHH!"_ the _M. Tex_ bellowed.

 _"_ _Screeeeeeee!"_ shrieked the lead _Velocimuppet._

"Eeeeeeeee!" the rabbit snarled at the other unfortunate denizens of the ribcage.

"Moooooga-shaka!" Mookie-mookie howled, dancing a glorious celebration as Animal lunged at Rizzo.

 _"_ _Aaaaaaaaauuuugh!"_ chorused everyone else in the room.

 _"_ _A lá peanut butter sandwiches!"_

A deafening clatter and crash resounded throughout the gallery, the echoes overwhelming the slightly less noisy sounds of other bony collapses. Every skeleton dropped to the floor in a cacophony of _clunks._

In the astonishing silence which followed, dust sifted down from the ceiling. Everyone recognized Janice's voice: "Oh, _wow!_ Like, talk about making an _entrance!"_

The Newsman gaped at the hooded figure. It leaned down, glaring with glowing balls of light deep within black sockets, and about the time it dawned on him that this wasn't _the_ Death, merely _a_ death, it rapped on a small electronic screen and shook a bony fist at him. _"STOP that! Who do you think you are, Bruce Willis?"_

"I…uh…whuh?" Newsie stared up, going into complete brainlock.

The reaper tapped its iTomb personal media device again. _"You're screwing up the Death Predictability app with all this heroic action stuff! You're not supposed to be brave and take risks! YOU were supposed to keel over from a myocardial infarction ten years from now the day the acid-spitting spider jumps on you during one of those stupid news reports!"_

"Agh!" Newsie choked, scrambling backward, wincing when his right hand hit the floor, the impact shivering through his injured arm.

Disgusted, the reaper waved the screen at him. _"Next thing ya know, some ditzy redhead actually falls for you, and we have to reconfigure EVERYTHING! Thought we had it all worked out, ya know? You go out on a wave of bliss in the middle of—but NOOOO! YOU have to keep completely throwing off your own danged life-endangerment parameters! Now the program's TOTALLY tombed up!"_

Newsie's eyes were open as wide as they could get, jaw hanging loose, sparks still shooting off along his arm and in his brain…at least, that's what it felt like. He struggled to comprehend what the scary bony thing was yelling at him. "Wha…what the heck are you talking about?" he gasped, flinching when the reaper stuck a long finger right at his nose.

 _"_ _Don't play smart-aleck with me, bub! Dissing undead Muppasaurs in an elevator – you think you're being funny? Huh? Think that little stunt helped you? Well, the Boss will hear about this – you better believe it!"_

"Springsteen?" Newsie wondered confusedly what an aging rock star had to do with what he'd just gone through, but the spectre only snorted at him and vanished. Newsie sat there on the cool marble floor, utterly overwhelmed. All he could grasp from the bizarre rant he'd just been subjected to was that he'd done something to make the underling-death angry – _Death! The Boss! Oh, you idiot!_ Blushing in embarrassment, Newsie slowly picked himself off the floor. _Gina. Gina's still in there with that mummy…and the other monsters…what if Death…no, no, no!_ Frightened, he forced himself into motion, looking around for the staircase, locating it, and heading down, picking up speed with each terrified thump-thump of his Gold-Toe dress socks down the steps.

With a dramatic flip of his cape over one shoulder, the Amazing Mumford surveyed the wreckage of the Muppet Natural History exhibit gallery. "I see no one has accomplished _anything_ in my absence! What an unutterably sad situation!"

Piggy released Kermit only reluctantly when he slowly moved toward the magician, keeping hold of one of his slim flippers. The frog looked ready to collapse in a heap of bones himself, trembling with fatigue, his back feet wobbling a bit. "M-Mumford? What did you – _how_ did you—" Kermit gulped, trying to organize his thoughts, adrenaline still making his head spin. "I thought that mummy threw you into an elevator?"

"Indeed he did, fortuitous frog! Nice to see you again, by the way! You never drop by the Street anymore!" Mumford drawled, nodding smugly at him.

"I don't get it," Piggy huffed, looking around at the motionless piles of fossil bones and the Muppets slowly standing up in the open to stare at it all. "You destroyed them all? Just by waving that stupid wand and saying your stupid peanut butter sandwich line?"

"I didn't know that line worked for _anything!"_ Kermit muttered, clinging in exhausted relief to his wife. She kissed the top of his head, sagging a bit herself.

"Rah…huh…huh…" Animal panted, looming over Rizzo. The rat squeaked in terror, throwing his arms over his face.

"Aaack! Mother!"

Animal blinked at him. "Riz-zo?" The rat slowly uncurled, peering up uncertainly. Animal gave him a puzzled look. "Friends?" the drummer asked.

"Uh...yeah! Friends! Dat's right, Animal!" Relieved, Rizzo allowed himself to breathe again. Animal poked at the jade eyeball. "Oh…uh…heh heh…ya wanna play ball?"

"Raaggghh!" Animal growled, plucking the eyeball out of Rizzo's paws…and tossing it down his wide gullet. He gulped loudly, then blinked at Rizzo.

"Taste…like…broccoli!" the drummer proclaimed, then lowered his shaggy brows. "No _like_ broccoli!"

Lewis Kazagger shook his head. _"Will_ the Muppets forfeit this game to the mummies with that move? When we come back, the judges' decision!"

Lew Zealand waggled a fish at Kazagger. "It wasn't _my_ fault! That eyeball wasn't anywhere _near_ as aerodynamic as my salted Norwegian cod!"

"Mumford, I…I can't believe that actually worked! I had no _idea_ you could actually cast spells!" Kermit said, giving his former colleague a surprised once-over. The red cape, out-of-style old tux, and shiny top hat looked just the same as he remembered; only the satisfied smile on the magician's face was new.

"Well, of course! You know, I _was_ valedictorian in my class at Remarkable Ramon's Academy of Apocalypse-Ending Spellcasting!" He shook his head wearily. "But you know, frog, even with a college degree these days, it's so _difficult_ to actually find work in your field! Sure, I can lay the unholy dead to rest, build a fully ultradimensional Pickman Apparatus, summon spirits, oh, the works! But does anyone ever _want_ to see any of that?" He sighed. "No…people just want to see a rabbit pulled out of a hat!"

Piggy turned to the jumble of enormous bones which had been her opponent a few minutes before. "Well… _merci_ for the assistance, of course, but _moi_ was doing perfectly well! In fact, I believe the beast was beginning to tire…one false move, and I'd have brought it down like a ton of prehistoric bricks!" She tossed her hair back with a sniff.

"Hey! Hey! Lemme outta here!" a whining voice grated, followed by hoarse insults.

"This rescue attempt reminds me of my wife's tuna casserole!"

"Oh? Why's that?"

"'Cause it takes too long and it's always _still_ one big mess!"

"Ho, ho ho ho ho!"

Scott climbed over the wreckage of the _M. Tex's_ shoulders and began wrenching the collapsed ribs away from those still trapped inside the curving bones. Fozzie, who was nearest, carefully picked his way over the motionless skeleton to help.

"Mooga, unga frahhhawoowoo blah!" growled a rusty voice.

"It's still moving!" Gina yelled, pointing at the mummy. Mookie-mookie, swaying and trailing bits of what looked like dry grey foam, lurched toward the cracked case it had emerged from.

"What? But that should have crumbled like the rest of these things!" Mumford exclaimed. He waved his wand at the undead, but clearly tottering shaman. "No matter! I, the Amazing Mumford, shall now end this travesty of continued existence by this formerly fearsome and fumigation-requiring shambling shibboleth of—"

Before he could finish his speech, the mummy reached the glass case, knocked a few loose shards aside, glared back at the magician, and grabbed the strange two-handled stone cup laying there. The instant the shaman's crumbling fingers touched the pottery piece, both he and the cup vanished.

"Meee!" Beaker gasped, pausing from his labors, trying to free himself from beneath a wing of the massive Muppadactyl.

The Amazing Mumford swore under his breath. "Malevolent Melba toast! The cup was a portkey!"

"Uncle Kermit! Uncle Kermit!"

Kermit clasped his nephew in tired but strong arms, relief washing over him like a cool swamp current. "Uncle Kermit! They have some really neat frogs here! I was trying to talk with a red one with yellow feet, but all we could really understand was each other's names. He spoke Spanish…I think he said he was from Venezuela," Robin said happily. Kermit chuckled breathlessly, just hugging the little frog; Piggy joined in from the other side. The rest of the Frog Scout troop poured in, ribbiting excitedly; they cheered when Melvin crawled out to greet them, and the abashed snail had to endure many small fists pounding joyfully on his shell before a bunch of them lifted him and little Ribsy on their shoulders and paraded around with them both.

"Oh well," Rhonda sighed, looking at the suddenly still, stuffed lizard-mice creatures. "I guess it's just as well. They might've gone for a goddess sacrifice next." She clambered from the Muppafern model, casting annoyed looks around for the sloth. "Tommy? There you are! _Please_ tell me you kept filming!"

The sloth nodded slowly, patting the camera with one long three-toed paw. He mumbled something about the live feed and ratings. Rhonda squeaked a laugh. "Oh heck yeah! If _that_ doesn't get us an Emmy for live news coverage, I'll make Newsie eat Murray's hat!" She glanced around, irritated at not seeing the short yellow journalist anywhere. "Where _is_ the Plaid Avenger, anyway? Don't tell me he bugged out and missed all this!" The sloth shrugged unhelpfully.

A sudden tall, pale head bobbing over her made Rhonda flinch, but Van Neuter only pointed at the camera. "Are we still on? Oh! Oh! Did you film _everything?_ All the Muppasaurs? All the marvelous bird mutations?" When the sloth slowly nodded, the scientist danced happily in place, arms flapping eagerly. "Oh! Oh! Oh! I _need_ that footage! Would you – could you burn me a DVD of all of it? Pretty please?"

Rhonda inserted herself between the crazed, weirdly bald exhibit curator and her employee. "I suppose, in the interest of the advancement of paleomuppetology, I – er, I mean the station – _might_ be willing to make a copy of the raw footage for you, Doc." She narrowed her eyes shrewdly. "Of course, we'd have to ask for a nominal materials-and-processes charge…"

"Of course, of course! Mulch, go get your checkbook!" Van Neuter ordered.

His extremely reluctant assistant glared at him. "Fuh grungah oom buggah!"

Van Neuter started back, shocked. "Mulch! I have had _enough_ of your insubordination today! Now go get your checkbook before I bring out the Hunch-piercing Brain Fat Expander!" Grouchily, the blue Muppet stomped off, muttering insults about there not being a toupee cylindrical enough to fit such a tall fathead.

Rhonda shook her head. "Cash only!"

"But…oh, all right," Van Neuter grumbled, rummaging in his pockets. "How much?"

Rhonda smiled. "That depends. You want regular or Blu-ray?"

Gina looked around, worried when she didn't see Newsie returning. She tapped Rowlf on the shoulder as he was watching the impromptu Frog Scout parade around this end of the hall. "Rowlf? Was Newsie with you?"

"Uh…no. He ran off with the frogs, I think," the dog replied, realizing he didn't see the newscaster anywhere. His smile dropped. "Sorry, Gina…I don't know…"

Her worry growing, Gina limped to Gil and Jill and Mr Ribbot, who were interrupting one another…slowly…to tell Kermit and Piggy their adventure. Gina broke in, not bothering with an apology: "Where's Newsie? Rowlf said he went with you guys!"

"Are _vous_ hurt?" Piggy asked, noting the way the taller woman was cradling her left arm against her body.

Gina made a curt gesture with her uninjured hand; that wasn't nearly as important as finding her Newsman. "Er…I believe he was with us until we hid in the frog hall…" Jill mused.

Robin jumped in. "He suggested we hide there, Uncle Kermit! That was a really good idea! But he...but he…he didn't come in with us," the senior Frog Scout realized as he spoke. He blinked at Gina, round eyes wide. "I don't know what happened to him. We…we heard all kinds of loud yells…"

 _Death, you son of a…_ Gina's expression turned grim. Piggy touched her arm gently. "I'm sure he escaped," she said, trying to sound hopeful. "He, uh…he always was good at running…not so much at the not-being-squished part, but as long as those things didn't fall from the ceiling, I'm sure he's fine!"

Dark thoughts of Mrs Crimp and a menacing reaper crowding her head, Gina strode over to the Amazing Mumford, who was examining the now-harmless stuffed _Muppalepus Snarlodontus._ "What a pity," he muttered. "That would have been _magnificent_ to pull out of my hat!"

Gina grabbed his shoulder. "You said something a minute ago. Something about laying the dead and summoning spirits. Were you serious, or is that all the shtick you give to the audience?"

The magician drew himself up, affronted. "My dear long-legged girl! Why, I never brag about _anything_ I can't actually accomplish!" He leaned in. "Why, did you want a private showing?"

Gina repressed a shudder. "I need you to summon my late grandmother for me. I'd do it myself, but I…I can't. _Don't_ ask why, it's a long story." She reflexively touched the beads around her neck, the barrier keeping her Newsie safe from the disastrous effects of their combined energies but blocking almost all of her inherited gifts and talents. "This is a real question of life and Death, so will you just do it, please?"

Mumford peered up at her, trying to judge her seriousness. Gina glared at him. "Come on! Will you help me or not? Or were you just blowing smoke about your supposed skills?"

"Oh, I _assure_ you, young lady, I can do it," Mumford said. "But this is a highly difficult summoning you're asking for! As a card-carrying, charter member of the Magician's Union, even at scale rates, you understand, I would have to ask for something in return."

"How much?" Gina snapped, glancing around to see where her purse had landed among all the debris.

"Oh no, no, not coin of the realm! I would, however, appreciate the presence of a lovely, fiery young _assistant_ onstage in my comeback tour…"

Aware that every passing second might mean disaster, Gina clenched her fists, immediately releasing the left one when pain shot up her wrist. "For how long? I _have_ a job already!"

Mumford eyed her cannily. "One year."

"Are you _crazy? No!"_ Gina sucked in her fury, reminding herself of the way her Aloysius held her last night, of the way he'd gazed at her when they lay breathless, arms entwined; reminded herself of the terrible demand laid upon his shoulders. But oh, if there was one thing her Grandmama Angie had taught her, had emphasized as the one skill no _chavi Romano_ would ever, ever forsake, no matter the circumstances…it was how to bargain. She stuck out a finger at the smiling magician. "One week!"

"Six months!" Mumford countered.

"Do you take me for a loose penny, to be tucked in your dirty pocket? Two weeks, and that's generous considering no theatre will hire you for more than one night!" she snapped.

"Yours did, for three shows!" Mumford argued.

"That's because the producer is a _dilo chor bal valo!"_ she snarled, slipping into Romani in her anger.

"Oh, you're Gypsy!" Mumford said, surprised. "With the red hair, I wouldn't have guessed! Well, in that case…I'll come down to _two_ months!"

Exasperated, Gina grabbed the magician by his jacket collar, yanking him into the air, gritting her teeth at the pain that cost her. She growled in his face, _"One_ month. Or I go throw _you_ to the _mulesko angelo_ to be a fit companion for the old witch plaguing my Newsman!"

"Oh! You, uh, your boyfriend's the Muppet News guy?" Mumford asked, squirming. "Why didn't you _say_ so! I _love_ his sketch – all that stuff falling on him _always_ makes me la—er," he gulped, seeing real fire in those dark eyes now. "Ah. One month. Sounds fair." Wordless, fuming, Gina released him. Nervously Mumford straightened out his collar. "So. You need me to summon your grandmother because…?"

"Because she's the only one I can think of who might be able to put Newsie's horrible mother back in her place!"

"Oh, dear," Mumford sighed. "I really get tired sometimes of doing family shows…" He saw the clouds threatening in Gina's expression, and hastily held up his gloved hands. "But of course, for my beautiful new assistant, I will venture _even_ into an incident of incendiary in-laws! I will—"

"Just say the damned line," Gina snapped, arms crossed.

Newsie paused at the bottom of the steps on the threshold of the third floor, listening. Not a sound stirred through the grand upstairs foyer with its elegant staircase. Not a leaf fluttered out of place in the Hall of African Mammals. _Did the frogs all escape?_ he wondered; he struggled a moment between hastening on to reach the disaster-stricken far gallery or stopping in the Hall of Reptiles and Amphibians. After a few seconds, guilt at the idea of leaving anyone behind won out, and he tiptoed into the frog room. The special exhibit within the permanent hall seemed peaceful; dozens of peeps and ribbits and croaks sounded, hardly pausing when he entered. Newsie peered into several tanks but didn't recognize any of the frogs; certainly none of them seemed to be wearing bandanas. Unable to determine whether the Frog Scouts had departed or whether they'd simply gone native so well he couldn't tell the difference, he sighed. At least no other monsters leaped out at him. "Robin, if any of you guys are in here…good job," he muttered loudly.

"Peep," a frog replied, blinking at him with large wet eyes. "Peepeepeepeepeep."

Newsie looked it over once uncertainly. "Uh…right."

He hurried back toward the African tableaux of lions, zebras, and elegant giraffes, but although he nervously cast his eyes in all directions repeatedly, nothing moved. His arm had shifted from ice back to a dull, throbbing heat, as though coals stuck to his felt. His mouth set in a grimace, the Newsman continued on, searching for any sign, any indication at all of everyone else's fate. Beyond the mammals, a number of birds from the common pigeon to a gorgeous hawk posed forever behind glass…all except one, some sort of large white stork with enormous teeth and red wattles and…

Newsie froze.

The mutated chicken blinked at him, then narrowed its eyes. "Cluck. Cluck…grrrrrrr!"

"Aaaagh!" Holding his hurt arm close to his side, Newsie bolted back the direction he'd come when the chicken-thing surged forward surprisingly fast, toothy beak clacking and snapping. This time he took the stairs down, hoping against hope that security forces were at last on their way…and that even if they couldn't handle an unkillable fossil Muppet monster, they might at least be able to subdue one overgrown fowl. With a bawking snarl, the beast flapped into the air, zooming after him, claws outstretched.

Gonzo lifted his head enough from the floor to see the guy who'd killed the fossils striding toward the open exit, his fabulous cape thrown jauntily back and Newsie's girlfriend in his wake looking very displeased. "Uh, hey!" Gonzo called. "Hey, wizard guy! Could you give me a hand before you go?"

The Amazing Mumford turned around, saw the three giant chickens with sharp teeth relentlessly pecking the furry daredevil, and jumped a little, startled. "Great Banana Fudgesickles! Those are the toothiest great blue herons I've ever seen!"

"They're not herons. They're chickens – ow," Gonzo corrected between pecks. "At least, they used to be…can you help?"

"Of course, my boy!" Mumford pulled out his wand. "I wave my magic wand, I say the magic words – _A lá bawkety bawk-bawk baaaaa-kawk!"_

In a swirl of feathers, the chickens all became mere Muppet birds once more. "Bawwwwwwwk?" one gasped, dazed.

Gonzo pulled her into a weak embrace. "Oh, sweetie! That was _amazing!"_ He lowered his voice, looking guiltily around at the other chickens slowly coming to their senses, "Uh…I know you've been taking method acting lessons from Uncle Deadly…think you could, you know, reach into your angry place later tonight and, um…"

Camilla blushed, rubbing her feathery head shyly against him. "Bu-gawk bawk?"

Gonzo chuckled softly. "Uh, yeah…I _think_ the whip is still in the pantry…"

Impatiently, Gina tugged Mumford's sleeve. "Hurry!"

He sighed. "Patience, my dear! Good ghost-calling can't be rush…er…then again, perhaps you're right. Why put off until tomorrow a spirit you can summon today? Heh heh…" Avoiding the Gypsy's only-one-stick-of-dynamite-short-of-a-mountaintop-excavation glower, Mumford trotted out the gallery exit, Gina right on his clicking heels.

Suddenly Gonzo looked around. "Hey! Florence? Anybody seen Florence?" Only questioning looks met his worried gaze. Camilla clucked at him, and he shrugged, annoyed. "Well, okay, but _you_ know her better than I do! Flo? Flo, you in here?"

The other chickens clucked, shifting around anxiously. The rest of the Muppets looked over when Gonzo yelled, "Hey! Anyone seen Florence Hendershen? Anyone? Guys! We have a missing chicken! A chicken is unaccounted for!"

In the station at the lowest level of the Museum, the Newsman did something he'd never, ever done in his life: he jumped the turnstile, running for the subway train just pulling in, panting dryly, but the mutant bird snapping inches behind him never slowed. The journalist and the monster-formerly-known-as-Florence dove inside the last train car just before the doors closed. The train whisked off, picking up speed, heading downtown along the B line.


	16. Chapter 16

When she was six years old, Gina learned how to dupe the _gadje._

Grandmama Angie played the neighborhood numbers game, and usually won; she was a startlingly shrewd poker player, even among the men of their small community of Rom; and she could _dukker_ the _gadje_ with the best. Her fortune-telling, a canny mix of simple psychological observation and an actual gift for foretelling, brought in coins every week; in these ways she kept herself and her orphaned granddaughter afloat. Honoring the wishes of her more progressive son-in-law, Grandmama Angie allowed the child to attend the _gadjo_ school and learn the things she would need to move freely in this settled society; but her nights and weekends were spent learning a trade regarded as far more useful and lucrative: wheedling money out of gullible strangers. "After all," her grandmother told Gina many times, "there's no _marimé_ against taking coins for a little good news, a few pleasing words. They're happy, you're richer, what's the problem?" And so the girl learned how to use her soft grey eyes to look plaintively at the _gadji_ lady in furs at Grandmama's basement table and hold out the well-worn sunbonnet or wool cap for payment when the old lady told fortunes. An innocent, earnest face brought in higher tips than the fortune-teller could have garnered on her own. The child listened in as her grandmother mixed what she could sense of the person's immediate future with comforting platitudes or exciting hints of romance, whichever seemed most required, and softened any blows she saw in the line of a palm or the turn of a card. "Never tell them bad things," Grandmama Angie cautioned her. "Even if it's true, they won't want to hear it."

So the girl found herself an expert at the cards by fourteen, and surreptitiously gave readings during lunch hour at school, or after classes, for the lonely overweight girls and the snooty socialites alike. Who didn't want their fortune told? Gina could never see ahead as clearly as her grandmother, but she was a fairly good judge of body language and attitude, and word of mouth brought her more than a few student clients. She could never quite bring herself to flatter the lonely ones with assurances of happy times ahead, especially as so many of their cards tended toward tribulation and isolation, but she would try to temper their fortunes with suggestions designed to boost their self-confidence by planting ideas they might try: "Someone you don't suspect even likes you will be very impressed when you hold your head up to any insults… Your perseverance in improving your body will bring you many suitors." The rich girls, the preppy boys who sat down with her with smirks and their best buddies snickering nearby, she felt no remorse about. To _them_ she would gladly dole out the gloom and doom and dire warnings. "Your athletic skill won't get you through that exam… Examine your girlfriends. One of them is unfaithful." Sometimes she could see nothing at all of their futures, and blithely invented warnings for them on the spot, knowing they'd never guess her deadly-serious words didn't accurately reflect a spread of cards about increases in wealth. Funny, though, how often pentacles and swords cropped up in rich kids' readings…

Grandmama Angie was the only Gypsy whom Gina really knew well. Once in a while she'd gone upstate to a convention of caravans, met others of her people who still lived the itinerant life, concerned with horses and knife-making and music, but she never felt comfortable there, not fully. Although in her grandmother's petite but fierce company no one dared say an unkind word to her, Gina caught looks exchanged, saw the initial startled reactions when she was introduced to some new Rom. That first quirk of an eye or subtle shift backward in a stance spoke volumes, even though it was always immediately masked with pleasant greetings. Years passed before she finally dragged the heart of the matter out of her grandmother: "It's your hair, little fire," Grandmama Angie sighed. "Your hair and your eyes. Your face is as Romany as they come, but you have your father's mama's coloring. She was of the Irish blood; she married into the Rom."

"Then am I not Rom?" the girl asked at eleven.

Her grandmother hugged her tight, and met her troubled stare with a firm, black look. "Little fire, you're as Romany as I am! Don't you let any of them make you doubt that."

As delicately friendly as the Gypsies could be around the girl, she saw firsthand how much worse they were to any strangers who came snooping into the encampment, particularly those who came hoping to find cheap horses or gold jewelry. Gina had watched silently from the edge of the campfire one night when a loud, overly friendly man negotiated a Gypsy called Spry Tom down to what he felt forced to accept as a fair price for a necklace of "antique gold coins, been in the family for five generations, but times are hard." Spry Tom bewailed the necessity of selling the piece, haggled for almost an half-hour over it, and the other Rom men present threw such dark scowls at the _gadjo_ wanting the necklace that he finally paid more than he'd wanted to by a large amount. When the man returned the next day as the caravans were packing up to depart, complaining that after wearing the "gold" necklace his wife had developed a green stain around her neck, Spry Tom was nowhere to be found and only stony silence met the unhappy man's protests. Gina asked carefully whether the man had been cheated on purpose.

"He's _gadjo,"_ Grandmama Angie had sniffed. "What does it matter? If he's not an expert in gold he should've brought along someone who was! We don't deal like that with family, not ever; but a _dilo gadjo?_ Who cares? It's his own fault for stomping in here all full of himself, thinking he would get the best of _us!"_

Gina thought about this as she kept pace with the shorter Mumford, hurrying across the street into the park. She was certain her grandmother wasn't going to be pleased to be summoned by a _gadjo muleh-vi,_ a medium not even Gypsy by extraction! "Why are we coming out here?" she asked the magician. "Are you one of those earth-magic types?"

"What? No," Mumford said, waving a languid hand. "It's just awfully crowded with dead things in there, and I wanted to make sure we called up the _right_ one!" He stopped in a small glade just off the path, looked around, lifted a purple finger and tested the wind direction, took off his hat and dusted its brim before resettling it firmly on his head, and cracked his knuckles. Gina watched warily.

"Don't you need a personal item of hers or something?" she asked, but the magician shook his head with an air of tolerance for one so young and unlearned in these affairs. Gina didn't appreciate the attitude.

"Fret not, dear child! I am an _expert_ in these matters. No, all I'll need from you is for you to focus on the dear departed in your mind, and picture her as if she really was in front of you here, and when I tell you she's here, you may ask your questions…"

"Wait. When _you_ tell me? No, no, no! That's not what I agreed to!" She took a step closer to Mumford, making sure he noticed how much taller than him she was…and how her brightly-floral halter dress showed off the lean muscles of her arms, easily capable of swinging a Muppet…or hurling him, even with an injury. Mumford shrank back a bit, hastily raising his hands.

"Now, now, you asked for my help! I'm providing a valuable service here!" he protested.

Gina batted his upraised wand away from her. "Watch where you're pointing that!"

"Listen, my fabulous firebrand, this was the deal! I summon your grandmother's spirit so you could ask her to intervene with your boyfriend's mother, correct?"

"Yes, but I thought –"

"Well, that's exactly what I'm doing! Now, you said time was of the essence, so enough fussing! Just concentrate on the dear old lady, while I wave my magic wand, I say the magic words…"

"Bet I could throw you all the way to the lake from here," Gina muttered, but closed her eyes and tried to calm the nervous anger still surging through her, tried to picture Grandmama Angie. She heard Mumford mumbling something about peanut-butter-and-ginger-jelly sandwiches. _Grandmama, I hope you can hear this_ gadjo muleh-vi. _I hope you'll find Newsie's mother before she can do anything worse…_

She waited. Mumford fell silent. She waited a little longer. Suddenly thinking the magician might be pulling a fast one and sneaking off, Gina opened her eyes, but the Muppet showman hadn't left; he was looking around, seemingly puzzled. When he saw Gina peering at him, he jumped, then hastily smoothed down his cape over his shoulders. "Now, now! You mustn't rush an excursion into the misty realm of the dead! Keep concentrating; this won't work if you don't have her very clearly imagined just as though she's right—"

"What in the name of the gory dragon Michael slew is this _dilo gadjo_ doing?" demanded Grandmama Angie. She stomped a tiny, slipper-shod foot, and the Amazing Mumford cringed back, startled. "You, with the stupid cape! What are you, putting on the Ritz out here? What do you want with a dead old lady anyway? Throwing around random names to prove you can call up a _muleh,_ or are you trying to steal my _duk_ for your own –"

"Grandmama!" Gina exclaimed, throwing open her arms, but then unsure if she should, or even could, hug a ghost.

"That's never happened before!" the Amazing Mumford muttered, amazed. "First time that spell's ever conjured a full-body apparition…"

Grandmama Angie started, seeing her granddaughter. "Angelina! What are you doing with this _dinilo, narkie—"_

Although she agreed with the old lady about the magician being crazy and unpleasant, Gina interrupted before she could carry on with more insults – a favorite occupation of hers when alive, and clearly still enjoyable. "Grandmama, I asked him to call you, I'm sorry. It's important. Newsie—"

 _"_ _Sastimos,_ _Rawnie,"_ Mumford drawled in a passable Romani accent, making a formal bow. "I assure you I would never have disturbed your peaceful slumber; however your descendant here…"

"Peaceful, my hind end! I was in the middle of five-card stud with your uncle and your great-great-grandfather, bless their gullible souls!" snapped the Gypsy woman to Gina. She gestured in disbelief at Mumford. "Good health, he wishes me? I'm dead and it's a good health to me he says?"

"Grandmama, please. It's important." Gina remembered finally why she hadn't tried to have serious discussions with her grandmother whenever anyone else was present. She took a deep breath, winced when she began to curl her fingers into loose fists by force of habit when trying to summon enough patience to deal with her very impatient grandmother, and started again: "I need your help. My Newsie has—"

"You're hurt! Did that boring fool of a Newsmuppet actually grow a temper on you?" Grandmama Angie demanded. When Gina shook her head, trying to explain, the old lady swiftly turned on Mumford. "You! Did _you_ hurt my granddaughter, you squinty-eyed dog in a snooty hat?"

Insulted, Mumford stood up straighter. "Madam! I am _not_ a dog, I am a professional magician highly trained in the esoteric arts! Now you just be quiet long enough to—"

 _"_ _Be quiet,_ he says? Gina! Tell me you have nothing further to do with this _gadjo!"_ Grandmama Angie shouted; a wave of chilly air swished over Mumford, making him shiver even in the heat of the sunny morning.

"Actually," said the magician, taking a precautionary step back, "she's my new assistant."

Grandmother stared at granddaughter for a beat in silence. Then she sadly shook her head, seeing the truth of it in Gina's shameful blush. "To think," she sighed, "that I would ever see the day my own flesh and blood would stoop so low… This is very, very _marimé,_ you know! Ohhh, I hope your grandpapa doesn't hear about this!"

Gina growled, "How would he? He was dead before I was even born."

"Well he won't hear it from _me,_ but all the same! This is terrible! Gina, little fire!" The old woman touched Gina's arms lightly; it felt like a brush of cool wind. "How could you? I mean, going after that Muppet for your lover was one thing – and you better believe no one on the other side knows about _that_ either, they'd be _so_ horrified, you know! – but to go into such a shameful business with a _gadjo_ charlatan!"

Gina took several more deep breaths. She wasn't sure she could hold her temper long enough to explain it all. She hoped this hadn't been a profoundly useless idea…

The chicken wouldn't give up. The Newsman's dismay upon hearing startled yelps and gasps behind him, and turning to see the ostrich-sized monster bearing down on him _inside_ the subway car was only equaled by his despair when fleeing to the next car on the train didn't deter its pursuit in the least. His shorter stature meant he was jostled mercilessly by the throng of weekend riders, and several times he choked back a cry of pain when someone bumped against his injured arm. He heard the chime which meant the next stop was fast approaching, and desperately tried to shove his way in between the other passengers to get to the exit.

"Buk- _gawwwwrrrrr!"_ the chicken-thing snarled, having much more success at the people-shoving than Newsie was. Snapping at them with sharp teeth probably gave it an edge.

"Excuse me—please – sorry, I have to get out here—hey! ow – sorry—" Newsie said loudly, trying to be noticed over the rumble of the train, the metal-on-metal sound of brakes as the train slowed, and some kid's samba music blaring despite the fact his earbuds were shoved deep in his ears as he sat near one of the doors. Pushed back and forth roughly, and occasionally glared at, Newsie struggled to reach the doors when they slid open only to realize at the last second that he was next to the entrance, not the exit, confused and distracted by the enormous feathery monster lunging at him every few steps. He was knocked farther into the car by the rush of incoming passengers, those already standing inside grudgingly making way for them, and found himself pressed between some lady's oversized handbag and one of the plastic seats when the doors hissed shut and the train picked up speed again. "No! Wait!" he cried out, but he was too late. He managed a few steps toward the exit doors when suddenly the people ahead parted and he faced the mutated chicken directly.

"Ack!" Newsie threw his left arm up – and the chicken bit off his bracelet. He stared at his bare wrist, astonished, a full two seconds before the monster lunged again. He ducked, slipped in his socks on the smooth-worn floor of the car, hauled himself up and ran for his life.

He didn't pause this time, wrenching open the door between cars and throwing himself forward, the rocking along the tracks making him stagger. He had no idea how the monster chicken was able to open doors, but when he glanced behind him, sure enough, the thing was hot on his trail. As he struggled past a clump of people blocking the center of the car, a large woman in a uniform rose to her feet from a nearby seat. "Hey! What's the hurry, man?" she demanded.

Newsie paused only long enough to jab behind him with a trembling finger, then launched himself along the rest of the car, trying to keep to the exit side, hoping another stop was coming up soon. "What the-? Holy…" he heard the train marshal exclaim, along with another low, growling cluck. Newsie reached the connecting doors between the cars, pulled them open and stumbled through; the curses and exclamations he could hear in his wake told him the monster chicken hadn't given up. _A train full of people and it only wants to eat ME?_ he thought, amazed at his own horrible luck. _Is this how I die? Eaten by a mutated Muppet poultry monster? Oh, frog, the 'Scandal' will have a field day with that!_ Desperate, he pushed past several more irritated people without bothering to apologize, needing all his breath to fuel his feet at the moment – and skidded to a pole-grabbing halt at the end of the car. Bulletproof glass shut the compartment away from the conductor's seat just beyond. _End of the line! Oh, no!_

Turning quickly, he found the chicken slavering and scratching its talons against the steel floor. _Screeeeek…screeeekk…_ Wincing at the terrible sound, the Newsman looked left and right, hoping some stranger might jump in and help him. Instead, the people nearest seemed to be staring in shock, if they paid any attention at all; he saw more than a few heads bent over cell phones, texting away. One young man raised his phone, snapping a photo of the chicken-thing. _So my final moments will be captured for 'America's Dumbest Minor Celebrity Deaths.' Great,_ Newsie thought glumly.

"Hey, you! You can't bring livestock on the subway!" the marshal yelled at him from just beyond the monster. A dull chime sounded.

The mutant chicken growled, scrunching up its beak, readying its powerful legs for a pounce – and the train wheezed to a stop, the exit doors nearest Newsie sliding open; he tumbled out in the crowd, regaining his footing with difficulty and running onto the platform. He heard shouts and laughter behind him – _Wait. What's funny about any of this?_ Turning in puzzlement, he saw the marshal fighting with…a chicken.

An ordinary, albeit very bewildered, Muppet chicken; Van Neuter's serum had worn off. As the marshal tried to grab her, the chicken squawked and flapped and pecked. Newsie stared in astonishment. "Dang it, stop that, you – you –chicken!" the marshal yelled, swatting at the bird.

"Bok-bok-buh- _gawk!"_ the chicken protested, landing atop her head and pecking and dancing the crazy claw dance. Spotting Newsie, the marshal pointed at him while trying to bat the bird away with her other hand.

"You! This is _your_ chicken! Come back here! That's a class B fine, you joker!" she yelled. "Violent poultry attacking a transportation department employee!"

The Newsman felt he'd endured enough weirdness for one day. He bolted for the stairs and didn't stop running until he was several yards from the subway entrance.

The guards had finally ventured into the Muppet Natural History exhibit hall, but nothing remained for them to do but to reluctantly engage in a long argument with the Museum director over whose responsibility it would be to pick up the bones and restore some semblance of order. "I mean _look_ at this mess!" the director said, sweeping his arm in a three-hundred-sixty-degree arc to encompass all of the rubble. "Really, it's…it's…" He threw up his hands as if pantomiming a bomb going off. "You know?" he demanded of Sam the Eagle, who nodded somberly.

"Mm. Mm. Well put," Sam agreed.

"Well _we_ didn't make all dem bones come alive!" a guard protested.

"But you are entrusted with the _security_ of this fine institution!" Sam scolded.

"Exactly! Exactly," the Museum director agreed. "I mean, what happens when the guards don't _guard,_ eh? What happens? Can you tell me?"

"Er…uh…" the guard said, looking around discouraged at the smashed cases, scattered bones, half-destroyed displays, and Muppets celebrating their escape.

"A little help over here!" Scott bellowed from over by the collapsed _Muppetasaurus Tex._

Relieved to have something useful to do, the cadre of guards scurried off to help free the people still trapped in the ribcage. Disgusted, the Museum director threw his hands in the air, letting them slap down against his legs. "D'ya see what I have to put up with for employees here?" he asked Sam. "I mean, look at them! Shirking their…! at the drop of…! You know?"

"Oh, quite, yes. Mm," Sam nodded. "Dis-gusting!"

The director looked the tall eagle over once, brows knitted, then pointed at him curiously. "Aren't you supposed to be stuffed?"

"Mm, yes. I— _what?"_

"I think you boys should get the Bravery Badge for all running to help your fellow Scouts with that horrible Muppasaur," Gil told the Frog Scouts all gathered around him.

"Especially my Ribsy," Mr Ribbot croaked.

Robin, Dill, and some of the older frogs looked at one another, then as one shook their heads solemnly. "Mr Frogg, we only helped. The bravest one here is Melvin," Robin said. "He jumped in to help the mice when none of the rest of us even saw them in trouble!"

"I wouldn't exactly call it 'jumped,'" one of the other frogs muttered, but was shushed.

Gil and Jill nodded. "That's true. Melvin Snail, we'd like to see to it you're awarded the Frog Scout Badge for Conspicuous Bravery…the Green Heart!" Gil announced.

The Scouts cheered. Kermit smiled, nodding, proud not only for the snail, but also of his nephew for putting credit properly on the one who'd risked the most. The snail ducked his antennae, pleased. "Awwwwww…thaaaaaaaaanks!"

"And the Muppasaur Studies Badge for Ribsy!" Dill said, and the Scouts cheered again.

"And a party for all of _vous_ brave, loyal frogs…and mice and snails," Miss Piggy announced, and the cheers doubled in volume. Surprised, Robin looked at his uncle.

"Uh…sure!" Kermit agreed, though he wrinkled his mouth a little nervously.

"We'll rent a rec hall," Piggy murmured to him, which relieved Kermit enough to join in the cheers as the Scouts began madly hopping everywhere, all talking at once.

"Ooh! Ooh! Can we have a FrogBand challenge? I can bring my Xbox!"

"Can we have a jumping bog?"

"Can we have a pool?"

"Can we have pizza?"

"I call no stinkbugs on mine!"

"Fine, half pepperoni and half gnats!"

"Eww," squeaked a mouse scout. "Can we just have plain cheese?"

Scott and one of the guards gently hefted the aardvark from the crumpled-in ribcage of the fallen giant Muppasaur, leading him by the forepaws over the unsteady mound of bones to Fozzie's capable hands. The guard anxiously tapped Scott's shoulder as the tall techie started to head after the aardvark. "Uh…what about _that_ guy?"

Scott shook his head, grinning. "Nope. Call the Fire Department. Think _he'll_ need the jaws of life. We're done here."

He kept grinning as the skinny Muppet still trapped in the smallest, lowest section of the ribcage, crumpled into a small package of felt and mop-like hair, banged on the bones with a piece of broken videocamera. "Hey! Hey, losers! Lemme outta here! I'll print your names in the _Daily Scandal!_ You don't want to be on my mean side! Hey, c'mon! I'm serious!"

"So am I," Scott muttered, and went to see how the aardvark was faring.

If the Time-Warner building, with its sleekly modern tower, hadn't been enough of a clue to his whereabouts, then the statue of Columbus presiding over the honking, dragging traffic jam confirmed it. _Columbus Circle. Sheesh…I need to get back to the Museum!_ However, Newsie certainly had no wish to return to the dark bowels of the subway, where one outraged marshal…and possibly also one enraged chicken…awaited. Sighing, squinting up into the hot day, he tried moving his right arm. Fire shot along it, then dulled to a sickening ache. He couldn't recall when he'd had his last tetanus booster; did such an inoculation even cover things like undead Muppasaur bites?

It was too far to even consider walking, with the threat of Death still looming in his thoughts. Newsie trudged to the northern side of the circle and waved desperately until, finally, a cab stopped. As the Newsman gratefully yanked open the door to the backseat, a lumbering man in a bulging suit loudly protested: "Hey! Thath _my_ takthi, you thieving Muppet!"

Newsie, startled, glanced back; bulbous lips working into an angry froth and flat, round eyes were all he saw of the ponderous stranger before he slapped his press badge against the partition window of the taxi. "The American Museum of Natural History – and step on it!" he yelled, swinging the door shut with a grunt, trying to ignore the pain in his arm. He felt mildly sorry for the fish-faced man, but he'd discovered there were more important things than good manners sometimes. The cab screeched off, but quickly became enmeshed in traffic, and missed the turnoff to Central Park West, swinging up along Broadway toward Columbus Avenue instead.

"Don't worry, Detective, I'll get ya dere," the cabbie promised. "Is dis about da distoibance dey said onna radio?"

"Disturbance? Uh…right," Newsie said, then did a double-take. _Detective? But I'm not…oh. The press badge._ He debated correcting the cabbie's mistake, then realized he might get there faster if he said nothing. _But that's the kind of trick Scribbler would pull,_ he thought guiltily. He moved to knock on the partition, halted himself, sucked on his knuckles in indecision a moment, then grimaced at his own fallibility and leaned forward again to speak up.

"And now _lies,"_ his mother sniffed haughtily. "You're not acting like any son of _mine!"_

"Aaagh!" Newsie gulped, jerking away from the gray spectre suddenly sharing a cab with him.

"You see? You see what you've degraded into, without me here to guide you?" Mrs Crimp scolded. "You weak-minded boy! You never _could—"_

"Shut up, Mother!" Newsie shouted; the cabbie flinched, swerving into the left lane enough to provoke angry honks all around. He seemed to be dodging around and between other cars.

Mrs Crimp glared at Newsie. "You may _think_ you've put up some kind of a fight, you pathetic little boy, but you mark my words: Death will have the final say here, and _he_ knows good sense when he hears it!" Newsie glowered at her, resisting the urge to vent his anger further, knowing there was no point to it with her. Apparently taking his silence for a declaration of surrender, his mother smiled. "Don't worry, Aloysius; I'll forgive you… _when_ you've done enough penance for all this disobedient behavior." Her smile darkened. "See you soon." She winked out as abruptly as she'd arrived.

"Hey, uh, Detective…if you're gonna fight in my cab, I gotta charge extra," the cabbie said.

"I'm not a detective," the Newsman sighed, holding his hurt arm tighter over his chest; the cold radiating from his mother had intensified the pain in it. "I'm a journalist."

"Hey, whaddaya mean pretendin' ta be a cop then?" the cabbie demanded. "I t'ought you was gonna let me offa any speeding tickets!" He stomped on the brakes, then eased the taxi back into the normal pace of traffic.

"I wasn't…" Giving up, the Newsman slumped in his seat. Why would no one ever listen? At least Gina did… _Oh, Gina. I still don't know how to make this all go away…how to make Mother go away, forever! If she's left out here she'll never quit badgering me about being with Gina, about living in sin, about…_ He blinked, seeing something out the window as the sidewalk crept by. Scooting forward on the seat, he tapped the partition. "Uh…could you pull over here, please?"

"Sure t'ing, ya lousy liar," the cabbie muttered. When the cab brushed the curb, the driver demanded a fee higher than was legal, but Newsie wasn't going to waste precious time debating it, and handed over enough to cover it before scrambling out. He stood staring at the beautiful collection of amber-in-rose-gold jewelry displayed in the shopwindow. Slowly he tilted his head up to read the name of the store: _LE BELLE EPOCH JEWELERS._ He tried to smooth down his ruffled hair, straightened his tie, hoped they wouldn't notice the blood on his jacket sleeve or his sock-feet, and went inside to ask about one particular item in the window. One particular item…which he fervently hoped might cancel out at least _one_ of his mother's objections.

Grandmama Angie stormed across the street, ignoring the cars screeching and honking like angry geese. Gina hurried after her, and a very amazed Mumford brought up the rear. "The dead have no right to bother the living! What, didn't he remember to turn all the mirrors to the wall when she died?"

"I don't think he even knows about that, Grandmama," Gina reminded the old woman. "He's not Rom!"

"Ahh…don't remind me! What you see in a man so boring and yellow I'll never understand…but he treats you good?"

"He treats me _very_ good," Gina asserted, finding it a challenge to keep up with the ghostly lady as she strode up the main stairs to the Museum. "And he's definitely _not_ boring."

Her grandmother stopped, gauging Gina's expression, and Gina felt a blush creeping up her face. She did her best to maintain a level, indifferent gaze. The old woman laughed finally, and continued on. "Little fire, some things I don't need to know! All right. So let's go give this old _mamioro_ the what-for, hey? Messing with my granddaughter – ho, she's asking for a smackdown!"

"A smackdown? Grandmama, since when do you—"

"What? We watch WWF every Thursday. _Bebe,_ trust me, the afterlife isn't half as interesting as it's made out to be, but you didn't hear that from me!"

Sighing, Gina followed the quick, tiny woman into the Museum, where she'd insisted Death would naturally be drawn because of all the dead things already there. "Just so long as nothing _else_ starts moving that shouldn't be," Mumford grumbled behind them. He trotted closer to Gina to whisper to her: "If the Reaper decides to take you with him, I'm _still_ holding you to your contract!"

"She has no contract with you, _dilo gadjo,"_ Grandmama Angie declared firmly, having heard him perfectly well. "The Rom do not enter into contracts with the _gadje!"_

"Grandmama, stop," Gina pleaded wearily. "I did say I'd do it. It's…it's only for a month. I had to, to get in touch with you."

"Did you hear nothing I ever said to you?" her grandmother snapped. "He's _gadjo!_ You don't have to hold any honor with him! No Gypsy ever felt bound by a word given to one of them!"

"Now, wait just a minute," Mumford began, but the two women ignored him, arguing as they blew past the startled guards and went up the grand inner staircase side by side.

"But I _did_ give my word, even if he is _gadjo,"_ Gina said.

"Ha! And your precious Muppet, what will he say about this deal?"

"Newsie won't like it," Gina admitted, then locked eyes with her grandmother's ghost. "But…he'd want me to keep a promise. He always keeps _his_ word."

Grandmama Angie frowned at her, then threw her arms in the air, making the multiple bangles in her ears chime against one another. "Wonderful! Now my own granddaughter thinks like a _gadji…_ no; like a Muppet!"

"I don't see anything wrong with that," Gina retorted. She matched her grandmother's glare.

"Uh…pardon me, but I want to interject here…" Mumford said. Ghost and girl whirled around and gave him such malevolent looks he quickly retreated, twirling his wand nervously. "Or not…"

"No woman of the Rom would ever, _ever_ place themselves beneath one of the _gadje!_ It would be enough to earn her permanent _marimé!_ You would be banned from all Gypsy life! Gina – little fire – think about what you are saying! A fling with a Muppet is bad enough, but –"

"A _fling?"_ Gina choked, angered. "Grandmama…you know what? I don't want your help. Newsie is not a _fling_ for me! He's the only man I'd ever consider…consider…" She gulped. In a quiet voice, she made herself finish the thought: "Consider…staying with. Forever."

Her grandmother's fierce gaze softened. One tiny hand reached up, beckoning; swallowing back her tears, Gina bent over, and Grandmama Angie brushed the moisture from her cheeks. It felt like a soft autumn breeze. Her grandmother sighed. "He means that much to you?"

Unable to speak without choking up, Gina nodded.

Bright black eyes gazed unblinkingly up at her. Finally her grandmother nodded as well. "So, then. Just don't talk to your grandpapa for a century or two when you get over here. _Dordie,_ won't he be having a fit when he hears about all this…" She sighed, and lifted her skirts once more, climbing the stairs. "He'll need that long to cool down! Come on, little fire, let's go save your Muppet from his _mariomo_ mother."

Gina trailed after her. Mumford followed at a short distance, thoughtfully silent. Feeling both angry and ashamed still, Gina muttered at her grandmother, "I'm sorry I'm not a very good _chavi Romano,_ Grandmama."

"Oh, my Gina." Grandmama Angie sighed, then unexpectedly gave Gina a smile. "We're more alike than you think, little fire. Remember…you're as Romany as I am." And she winked.

Gina stared at her, bewildered. "Grandmama?"

"Hush, child! I smell Death up here." The ghost touched Gina's unhurt arm gently. "Hurry! Hurry! Hey _you_ back there, pick up your cape and move it!"

Scooter spotted him first as he trotted worriedly through the galleries on the third floor; the pillar blocking the entrance to the Muppet exhibit from the reptile hall showed no signs of budging. "Hey, Newsman! We were worried about you! Where've you…hey, is that blood?"

"Yes," Newsie said shortly, breathing hard, not slowing. Scooter ran alongside him.

"So…what happened?"

"Got bit by a _Velocimuppet,"_ Newsie said. "You?"

"Uh…we're fine. We're all fine! Everyone else, I mean," Scooter said, still giving him curious looks as they headed through the New York State Mammals gallery. Newsie glimpsed what looked like a brown Muppet cow in one of the displays, and stumbled in surprise, then reminded himself he really didn't have time to figure it out and kept moving.

"And Gina? Where is she?"

"Um…I'm not sure," Scooter admitted. "She left a little while ago with that magician." He held up a large sack with a familiar green logo on it. "She might be back by now; I don't know. I went out to get coffee for the rescue workers treating the bumps and bruises…had to use the stairs. Apparently a bunch of bones got stuck in one of the elevators."

"Magician?" Newsie wondered. "Why did she go anywhere with a magician?"

"I don't know…but Newsie, you missed it! This guy showed up right in the middle of all the chaos and just snapped his fingers, and all the Muppasaurs died! Uh, died _again,_ I mean. It was pretty amazing! I think your assistant got it all on film, though…"

"She's not my assistant, she's my reports producer," Newsie muttered. They jogged around the corner into North American Birds; nervously Newsie scanned the stuffed birds behind glass for chickens sporting fangs. "Gina left with a magician, and he's the one who stopped all the Muppasaurs?" he asked, an idea as to why Gina might have gone anywhere with such a person forming in his mind.

"Yep, she did! Uh…they weren't kissing, or anything," Scooter assured him.

The Newsman only nodded, thinking. _Did she try to recruit this guy to stop Mother? If he can make dead things dead again, maybe…_

Then they both heard the shrieking, still another long gallery over: "How _dare_ you say that to me, you dirty little con artist!" Newsie couldn't help a cringe; he knew that scratchy, high-nasal voice all too well.

The response, however, confused him. A gravelly, thickly accented voice yelled back: "How dare _me?_ How dare _you_ stick that huge ugly nose where it doesn't belong, you nasty old hen!"

 _Oh good grief,_ Newsie thought, breaking into a hard run, leaving Scooter puffing behind, unwilling to risk spilling all the coffee. _Oh no. No, please don't tell me that's –_

He raced through the last few feet of the Hall of Primates, entering the narrow exit to the special exhibit gallery, and saw his mother, furious, nose-to-nose with a short, dark-curly-haired old woman in a faded shawl…and Gina standing to one side, anxiously watching the argument. A purple Muppet in a top hat and old tuxedo hung back, seeming unsure what to do with the wand in his right hand. Newsie slowed, panting, a little shocked at recognizing the old Gypsy woman who had _not_ turned him Swedish the night she'd cursed everyone else at the Muppet Theatre during a live performance.

"You call _my_ nose ugly? Yours looks like a potato!" Mrs Crimp spat, and with one sharp fingernail poked the old Gypsy's nose.

"Not that I understand _what_ my granddaughter likes about having a boyfriend with a beak, but on _you,_ it looks even worse!" the Gypsy retorted, grabbing the elderly woman's pointed nose and giving it a yank.

"Oh, wow," Scooter muttered, catching up. "A ghostfight!"

The Newsman moved toward Gina; unfortunately both she and his mother spotted him at the same instant. As Gina dropped to her knees to welcome him into her embrace, Mrs Crimp swooped over, grabbing his shoulder to yank him backward. "There's my ungrateful child! It's time to go home now, Aloysius! No more playing with dirty slatterns for you!"

But right on _her_ back came Grandmama Angie. "You call my granddaughter _that?_ You rotten, ugly, _gadjengi lashavi kanny!_ Take your hands off that Muppet before you defile him, you sour-milked cow! I don't want the hands that touch the blood of my blood to be dirtied with _your_ diseases!"

Shrieking, shouting, and hair-pulling ensued. Gina drew Newsie out of the way, worried, her hands swiftly roaming his face, his shoulders, gently holding up his arm; he winced. "Oh, Newsie! What happened?" she cried, seeing the rust-red stains.

"Had to fight off a bunch of vicious dead things," he muttered, putting his left arm around her waist. Suddenly he noticed she was favoring one arm as well. "Gina! You're hurt!"

"I think it's just sprained," she said, and kissed him on the nose, on his cheeks, on his lips; he held her there, needing badly to experience that affection again. She was only too happy to oblige. The fight raged on a few steps away.

Fozzie nudged Kermit. "Er…should we try to break it up?"

Kermit shook his head. "Break it up? I don't even know what it is!"

"An actual ghostfight!" Scooter exclaimed, passing the coffee out to the paramedics bandaging Statler's ear and Waldorf's nose, which had been banged around in the Muppasaur's empty guts.

"Yeah, it's fascinating," Fleet Scribbler growled, then tried to yell over the commotion. "Can one of you geniuses on the city's payroll cut me _out_ of this thing?" If the firefighters avidly watching the ghostfight heard him, they gave no sign of it.

"Roll tape!" Rhonda squeaked at the sloth. Tommy scratched his head slowly; before he could remember what he was going to say, Rhonda cried in exasperation: "Yeah, I _know_ it's all digital now, wiseguy! Just _roll_ it!"

"Oh, my! Look, Beaker! _Two_ full-bodied, nonvaporous apparitions! And they apparently don't like one another very much," Bunsen Honeydew pointed out.

"Uh-uhhh," Beaker said, wondering what corner of the room would be safest to hide in before Bunsen suggested they go get an ectoplasmic sample.

Newsie hugged Gina as tightly as he could, biting his lip when she accidentally brushed against his right arm. He didn't care. Being with her was worth anything. "I love you," he told her.

"And I love you," she whispered back, holding in her tears, trying to enfold him in both arms despite the pain in her left wrist. "I…I had to get Grandmama Angie here. I figured the best way to fight a ghost…"

"Was with another ghost?" He glanced back at the two old women practically duking it out at this point, and shuddered. "Remind me never to get on her bad side!"

Gina kissed him again, and for the moment, that was all he wanted to do: feel her tongue touching his, her lips against his, her body pressed tightly against him.

A booming voice brought everything to a halt. _"KNOCK IT OFF!"_

Grandmama Angie and Mrs Crimp staggered into stillness, neither letting the other out of her glare, small wisps of white fog curling off both of them to dissipate on the floor. "Look at that!" Bunsen said, "Actual ectoplasmic residue of violent spirit-to-spirit confrontational contact! Oh, _how_ I wish I had some sample jars with me!"

Beaker sighed, relieved, but then Dr Van Neuter nudged Bunsen, holding out a small plastic container. "Here you go, Bunnie! I always keep a few spares in my pockets." He chuckled. "You just never know _when_ you might find the _perfect_ mutated _Drosophila Muppetogaster!"_

"Oh, thank you very much! Now Beaker, if you'll just…Beaker?" Bunsen looked around confusedly, but his carrot-topped lab partner was nowhere to be seen.

Kermit shivered, instinctively grasping at Piggy's arms; she held onto him, equally shocked. "Is that…do you think that's really…" he gulped, unwilling to speak his fear aloud.

Piggy couldn't speak, eyes wide. Fozzie hid behind his hat, trembling. "It sure looks like it!"

Gonzo rushed forward to the black-shrouded spectre which towered over Muppets and humans alike. "Oh, _wow!_ It _is_ him! Hey, can I have your autograph?"

Death stared with glowing sockets at the fearless daredevil. Camilla clucked and fainted. Gonzo, unfazed, gazed up in rapt fascination, apparently unaffected by the cold or the musty scent of the bones. Death sighed, pulled out a black feather quill, and leaned over. A second later, an ecstatic Gonzo hurried back to the others, sporting letters in black ink upon his nose. "Guys! Did you see that? That was _so cool!"_

"You," Rizzo said, poking Gonzo's stomach, "are one hundred percent, comp _lete_ ly _insane!"_

Newsie and Gina looked unhappily at one another, then stood slowly, holding hands, to face the grim spectre. The skull turned slowly from one of them to the other. _"WELL? WHAT'S YOUR SOLUTION?"_

Gina tried to speak, but her throat was suddenly dry. Newsie gulped, but managed to get words out: "We're not going. Neither of us!"

Death sighed, shrugging. _"YEAH, I KINDA FIGURED YOU'D SAY THAT. WELL, SO BE IT. BESSIE CRIMP, I HEREBY—"_

"What are you doing?" Gina asked, taking strength from her Newsman's firm grip on her hand.

"It's Florabeth, you nincompoop," Mrs Crimp snapped at Death.

"Nothing _flora_ about _that_ stink," Grandmama Angie muttered. "What is that you wear, perfume of old snobby cow?"

 _"_ _That's_ it!" Mrs Crimp yelled, grabbing a fistful of the old Gypsy's hair. "You nasty, corrupted –"

 _"_ _OH FOR PETE'S SAKE! ENOUGH ALREADY!"_ Death bellowed, shoving clacking, bony hands between the two furious ghosts. He pointed one long finger in Mrs Crimp's face. _"YOU, SHUT UP! I WAS ABOUT TO RELEASE YOU BACK INTO THE LIVING WORLD!"_ He turned to Grandmama Angie. _"AND WHO EXACTLY ARE YOU? ANOTHER OF THESE PESKY MUPPETS?"_

"No, she's my grandmother," Gina interrupted. "She's just short."

"And short-tempered," Rizzo observed respectfully.

"Runs in the family," Mumford chipped in, adjusting his rumpled collar carefully.

"You…you can't allow her back here!" Newsie argued, stepping forward, closer to Death. Afraid for his safety, Gina held tight to his hand with both of hers, silently urging him back. He gave her fingers a squeeze, but held his ground, shivering. "She…she'd make my life… _our_ life…a living nightmare! You _can't!"_

The Reaper eyed the much shorter Muppet, perhaps reassessing him. _"THEN SHE'D BE HARASSING ME NIGHT IN, NIGHT OUT, ALWAYS COMPLAINING ABOUT HER SON FALLING INTO BAD COMPANY… DO YOU UNDERSTAND SHE'S SPENT THE LAST NINE YEARS HARPING AT ME ABOUT YOU STAYING UP TOO LATE, DRINKING TOO MANY CREAM SODAS, AND LIVING IN SIN? DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW IRRITATING SHE IS?"_

"Er…yes, I do," Newsie said, blushing. "But…but I think I can take care of one of those issues right now." Swallowing dryly, he turned to Gina. "I…I've thought about this for months," he said, fumbling in his inside jacket pocket.

Gina's eyes widened. She looked around; every Muppet in the room, plus the emergency workers and the guards, were all staring at her and Newsie. _Oh no. No, no, Newsie, please, you know how I feel about this, please don't do this…_

But he continued: "And…and I know where I belong, and whom I belong with, so…" He brought a tiny velvet box from his pocket. He saw tears starting in Gina's eyes; saw his mother gaping in shock, and Gina's grandmother beginning to smile. Feeling his face reddening, he plunged ahead. He knelt, gently tugging her unhurt hand; to his relief, Gina sank to the floor with him. This would have looked even more ridiculous if she'd remained standing, given their height difference, he thought. His voice was rougher than normal as he strained to keep it from cracking. "Angelina Vaarcek Broucek, will you…" He saw her starting to shake her head, crying, and for a moment he almost couldn't do it. If she said no, he didn't think he'd resist a trip with the Reaper any more.

Gina thought desperately, _Oh no. No! Aloysius, please don't do this to me! I told you how I feel about marriage! Don't do this, don't make me say no to you in front of all these people, please don't—_

"Will you…stay with me, and allow me to stay with you, forever?"

Gina stared at him.

He hadn't said it. It took her a long moment to process what he _had_ said.

The Muppets, the ghosts, and even Death leaned forward, holding their breaths, if they had any to hold.

The Newsman opened the tiny box with shaking fingers. Within, the beautiful curves of the antique, Art Nouveau ring gleamed in the warm lights of the Museum gallery, the single, perfectly oval amber gem seeming to take in all that light and hold it, a glowing ember encircled in a rose-golden vine, curling delicate filigrees the almost-living support for the tiny piece of ancient sunlight. Gina barely looked at it, her gaze held by her Aloysius' pleading eyes. She moistened her lips, picking through the maze of startled words crowding her head. "That depends," she said softly. She saw him blanch, but forced herself to continue. "Will you…will you promise to obey me in everything? To quit that dangerous news job, and stay home with me, and be whatever I ask?"

A soft gasp went up from the Muppets. Gina glanced over at Mrs Crimp, who looked on the verge of boiling over. Grandmama Angie stared back impassively, waiting. Death seemed puzzled. Newsie blinked at Gina, tears starting, his throat moving but no words coming out. He looked from her to his friends, to his mother, to the ring. When he raised his eyes to hers once more, she could see he didn't understand. It killed her to have to put him through this. She took his hand gently in hers, looking hard into those stunned dark eyes. She saw his body wavering; he was on the verge of collapse. Hurriedly she continued, "Or will you be your own Muppet, and never obey _anyone_ ever again? Will you promise to stand up to _anyone_ who tries to use you?"

Newsie choked, blinking; tears rolled down those long cheeks, but at last he understood. He nodded, slowly at first, then vehemently. "Yes…yes! I will!"

Gina felt heat in her own eyes. "Then I will too. I love you, Aloysius."

He threw both arms around her. She hugged him in return, both of them crying. When Gina could wipe her eyes a little, and kissed him again, and then looked around, there didn't seem to be a dry eye in the house…except for Newsie's mother.

"And just _what_ was that little performance supposed to mean?" she snapped.

Death glared at her, bending down to fix the unhappy ghost directly in his chilling sockets. _"IT MEANS THEY'RE FORMALLY TOGETHER, AND YOU DON'T HAVE A COMPLAINT TO MAKE ANY MORE, FLOSSIE."_ Mrs Crimp fidgeted uncomfortably.

"That's as good a proposal as any Rom ever made to his _bori,"_ Grandmama Angie declared. She shrugged. "Eh, he's been with her for how long now? In some of our people's tribes, that alone makes them already married!" She poked Mrs Crimp. "Your boy has good sense! Lord knows where he got it – certainly not from you!"

"All that nonsense about obeying!" Mrs Crimp muttered, though she seemed less angry than before. "If she's going to be his wife, _she_ should be the one obeying _him!"_

Grandmama Angie cackled. "My little fire? She hasn't obeyed _anyone_ since the day she was born! And me a grandmother, having to raise _that!_ I tell you, old crone, the children these days…"

"You don't have to tell _me!"_ Mrs Crimp sniffed, her large nose in the air.

Death tapped his scythe on the floor, making everyone jump. _"ALL RIGHT, WONDERFUL, EVERYBODY'S HAPPY. YOU TWO – WITH ME. NOW. I DO HAVE OTHER THINGS TO GET DEAD TODAY!"_

Almost as one, the old lady ghosts turned on the Reaper. "Don't rush us, old bonyguts! It's not every day I get to see my granddaughter so happy!"

"I'm not leaving until I find out how much of my son's money he spent on that silly bauble!"

"Hey, if it's for my Gina, it had _better_ be real gold!"

"If she's marrying my Aloysius, she'd better sign a pre-nup concerning any _other_ gold he earns!"

Death rolled his fiery eyes. "BOTH OF YOU – SHUT UP ALREADY!"

Statler, frowning, nudged his crony; they both sat on one of the abandoned display platforms, sipping coffee they'd stolen from the medics. "Hey Waldorf…do those two old biddies remind you of anyone?"

His companion shook his head. "No, and I'm surprised _you_ remember anything at all, you old fool! Oh, ho ho ho!" Statler at first joined in the laughter, then stopped, glowering at the other codger.

Death looked at Gina and Newsie, clinging to one another, still kneeling together on the floor. _"YOU TWO GET A PASS TODAY. BUT NO MORE STIRRING UP THESE BLATHERY BIDDIES! ALL RIGHT, GIRLS, TIME TO GO."_

Mrs Crimp smacked her fist against the bottom of the shroud. "You beast! How dare you call us that!"

"You watch your language around respectable old women!" Grandmama Angie chimed in, shaking her finger at the Reaper.

With a heavy sigh, the grim spectre swirled his cloak around them both, and all three vanished. Cold winds wafted randomly through the gallery.

Piggy looked at Kermit. Kermit stared back. "'Us'?" Kermit mumbled.

"'Respectable'?" Piggy muttered in reply.

"Hoo boy," Scooter blew out a breath. "Frog help him!"

Newsie gently wiped Gina's tears from her lovely face with his fuzzy fingers; she startled him happily by kissing his away. He leaned into her, his chin on her shoulder, overcome, loving the feel of her nuzzling his cheek in return. "Together," he whispered to her.

"Together," she agreed softly, and kissed him again.

He glanced over at everyone else; for the moment, they were all standing around stunned, only now beginning to murmur among themselves at all that had just happened; he knew it would only be a short while before someone interrupted him and Gina. "I love you. Thank you for…for saying what you did just now."

Gina kissed his nose. _Oh,_ how he adored that… "Right back at ya," she murmured. "Finally…maybe we can relax, with your mother gone." He looked so unhappy at that, she stroked his cheek. "I'm so sorry, Newsie. I'm so sorry she couldn't just let you live for yourself."

He tried to shrug; it came off very halfhearted. "She…she could be angry, and…and mean…sometimes…but…" He took a deep, painful breath. "But she was all the family I had, really. You're…you're so lucky, to have been raised by someone who…who…" He gulped. He couldn't say it. He met her concerned gaze, and then allowed her to simply pull him close again, to hold him and stroke his hair with her unharmed hand. He closed his eyes, sighing, holding her.

"But you did have other family," Gina murmured, "You told me so. An aunt, right? An aunt and uncle?"

"Uncle Joe died decades ago," Newsie said, shaking his head. "And Aunt Ethel's in…er…a facility. I don't think she remembers much."

Gina drew back to study his eyes. "You don't think she'd recognize you?"

He choked out a laugh. "Um…I don't think she'd recognize _herself_ at this point."

She continued stroking his hair, which he found very…distracting. "You know what? Maybe you should go say hi to her anyway. I'll bet she doesn't get any visitors."

"She pets monsters," Newsie argued. "How far gone do you have to be to _like_ monster-petting therapy?"

Gina couldn't keep a grin from her face at that. After a second, giving in to the release of it all, he started snickering. Gina giggled. Newsie held her tight, threw back his head, and let out a joyful guffaw. They fell to kissing again, fervently covering every inch of one another's noses and cheeks and mouths with quick touches of lips and tongues, until both started when Piggy tapped the Newsman's shoulder.

 _"_ _Excuse-moi,"_ she said pleasantly, batting her eyelids at him. Newsie looked around; every Muppet in the building, it seemed, was gathered around the two of them.

He attempted civility, embarrassed. "Er…yes?"

"It is customary, when you buy a girl a ring, and she says _yes,"_ Piggy explained, her sweet voice swiftly turning growly, "To actually put it _on her finger."_

Newsie blushed. "Uh…right," he muttered.

His fiery beloved shot him a wicked grin, and held out _both_ her hands. Newsie gave her a grimace, hesitated a moment, then chose the left hand and slipped the ring very lightly over her third finger. Gina gently mitigated his embarrassed flush with a very deep, very long kiss.

Rhonda sighed. "Well it's about freakin' time!"

Rizzo sighed. "Oh, bruddah."


	17. Chapter 17

"Thank you! You're too kind. For my _next_ trick…"

Gina did her best to maintain the fake smile on her face, but her thought at that exact moment was that the scattered, hesitant applause from the audience really _was_ too kind. It had taken Mumford no less than seven minutes to perform the card trick, which ended not with the magician correctly guessing what card the bewildered man in the front row had picked from the deck, but instead the cards turned into a flock of small wingless seabirds, who were now waddling and awking all over the stage. Gina stepped sideways as one of them mistook the stage floor for a privy right next to her, and growled under her breath, "I am going to kill him."

Newsie shook his head, his chin propped in his hands, leaning on the windowsill to the tech booth from the inside. Scott snickered. "Did you get a pic of her in that outfit yet?" he muttered low at the Newsman from his own excellent vantage point of the lighting board.

Newsie glanced over at him, shocked. "She'd…er, she wouldn't like that at all!"

Gina, as Mumford's assistant, had been half-coaxed, half-blackmailed into her current clothing, and in the end had _only_ agreed to it if the Muppet performer would shave one week off her contracted time in his employ. The low-necked leotard with bright scarlet sequins sparkling on every curve-hugging inch was only matched for sheer audaciousness by the equally sleek, black sheer tights showing off more than they concealed of her long legs. Thus far, Gina had refused to turn her back to the audience, but Newsie had seen her emerge from the dressing-room and knew just how, er, _flattering_ the outfit was from the rear. At his stunned jaw-drop, she'd blushed, glared, and threatened to kill Mumford for the sixty-third time. (Scott, Rizzo, Pepe, and Gonzo had a pool going as to both how many times she would utter some variation on that thought…and how many shows it would take before she actually followed through on it. Newsie knew about it, but for the sake of his friends' safety elected not to mention it to Gina.)

In the audience, Rizzo elbowed Gonzo. "Sixty-six! You're outta da running now, nice guy!" he chortled quietly.

"Ehh, I thought she'd actually _maim_ him a lot sooner," Gonzo replied, shrugging. "The flightless auks are pretty cool, though, huh?"

"Bawwwwwk?" Camilla asked, and Gonzo stroked her back.

"Of course not. But they _are_ kinda exotic…" he murmured to her, and the chicken shrugged noncommittally.

A number of the Muppets had attended last night's charity show at the Sosilly Theatre, and a few more showed up for today's final matinee. Fozzie had been surprised when Statler and Waldorf began heckling Chucky Bear and Topo Sticky earlier; "Hey, _I_ was gonna use dat joke!" he exclaimed at the old Gags Beasley saw about the monk, the airplane glue, and the seventy-two-piece model Studebaker. Kermit and Piggy had been too busy with the Frog Scouts and the usual Muppet Theatre business to attend, but had contributed generously to the charity fund. Link Hogthrob came Saturday night with a bubbly blonde he'd met in the waiting room of the hair gel company, and the two of them missed the first half of the show, too busy praising one another's well-styled locks in the lobby. Someone had thrown a pie directly in the face of the smarmy lounge singer during his stint earlier, about six words into his very un-Motown rendition of "Sugar Pie, Honeybunch," to much laughter and applause; Newsie could've sworn he saw a woman with a large sunbonnet yanked low on her head who nonetheless reminded him somehow of Wanda, trotting swiftly up the aisle immediately after the pie splatted on target. The steel drum player seemed to have forgotten she ever suffered rabbititis, and her backup pigs brought down the house with their version of Jimmy Buffett's "Volcano" (thankfully, everyone had tactfully forgotten to tell Crazy Harry about the show at all, and the song ended _without_ a climactic finale). All in all, counting the well-heeled people who also attended to fill the house almost to capacity, a very good show.

The Newsman felt a pang in his right arm, and eased back in his seat. The medic who'd stitched him up at the Museum yesterday had assured him the wound wasn't too deep and should heal. All the same, he was trying to go gently on it…especially after last night. He flushed pink, and tried to refocus his thoughts. However, gazing at his beloved onstage in that…that…er, spangly, showgirl outfit…was definitely taking his mind in an embarrassing direction. He wondered whether he could get away with sneaking a photo of her. Or…or convincing her to keep the outfit after this stage-magic gig was done? Brightening, he smiled. Maybe he could ask her to give him a private magic show? She really was rather good at it…certainly better than Mumford, who had now pulled two woodchucks, a broken accordion, and approximately twelve yards of flocked velvet Elvis wallpaper out of his top hat, but no rabbit.

"Ah…once again! I wave my magic wand, I say the magic words…"

Gonzo snorted. "This would be _way_ cooler if he'd do something with all that stuff! I mean, c'mon, at least try to eat the wallpaper, or juggle the flaming auk, or something…"

Rizzo laughed. "Ha! Just standin' up dere with Gina havin' to show off in dat outfit, the guy's takin' as much risk as _you_ do in _your_ acts!" He did a double-take. "Wait – when did the auk catch fire?"

"See you Thursday night, my dear!" Mumford said, waving jauntily at Gina when they exited the stage to confused murmurs in the audience; no one was quite sure what to make of his smothering the auk-fire with the wallpaper, and then pulling an enormous monster with stuck-on bunny ears and fat goggle-eyes from his hat to devour the flaming Elvis prints.

Gina glared at him before striding backstage to the ladies' dressing room to strip off the humiliating skimpi-tard as fast as she could. Mumford had insisted she wear spangly bunny ears as well next time, for his show at some swanky resort in the Catskills, where he had a one-weekend engagement. _If he thinks he's pulling ME out of that hat…_ she snarled to herself. Her resentment only banked into a residual smolder when she emerged from the dressing-room to find her Newsman waiting for her, a bouquet of red and peach roses in his hands.

Gina sighed, and had to smile. "Newsie…you don't have to give me flowers _every_ performance!" She accepted the roses, burying her petite nose in them. "Mmm…these are beautiful. Thank you."

He stood on tiptoe for a kiss. "You were wonderful," he told her earnestly.

She knelt, more comfortable in well-worn cargo pants and a "Chucky and Sticky: Wooden is Gooden" t-shirt which young Alan had foisted upon her; it was his first marketing ploy as the comedy duo's new manager. Gina nuzzled her Muppet's nose, enjoying the soft, nubbly feel of his skin. "No, _you_ are wonderful. Come on…I need to get away from here, before I come to my senses and stuff that stupid magician into his own dratted hat."

 _Sixty-seven,_ Newsie thought, and wondered if he ought to report that to the betting pool participants. _Forget it…let them find their own inside source,_ he thought happily, gazing up into the welcoming eyes of his Gypsy girl. "Sounds good," he agreed. "Uh…do you want to get a frozen coffee? An early dinner?"

She considered that, smiling, fondling his hair along the part, enjoying the way he began to blush and squirm while trying to maintain an innocent, proper appearance in public. "Gina…" he muttered, trying to duck out of her grasp, and she laughed and pulled him close.

"Know what I'd like?"

"Besides one less magician?"

"Ooh. You're getting quick." Newsie grinned, pleased, and she continued, still teasing him, one finger playing with a thick wave of his hair: "I was thinking…how about we pick up a nice, cool fruit tray at Whole Foods, and a bottle of something light and crisp—"

"Riesling?" he guessed; he'd never been much of a drinker, but in her company he'd learned a small glass of something nose-tickling could be pleasant.

She nodded. "Good call. Fruit, Riesling, maybe a couple of cheeses and crackers, and just go home and…" she brushed her lips over the pointed tip of his nose. "…Nibble?"

He had to remind himself to stay upright. "Sure…"

Newsie was puzzled, but happily so, when on the way out the back door of the theatre, Gina stopped and pulled him into a passionate kiss right as a somehow familiar-looking, fish-faced man started to approach. As Newsie stood there, wobbling a little, joyfully dazed, Gina said, _"Bye,_ Paul," and tugged Newsie after her out the door.

The fruit proved wonderfully fresh and cool, the wine sharp and light, and the Newsman was delighted when Gina turned his accidental spill of a few drops of wine down his unbuttoned shirt into a reason to lick his felt clean. Intrigued by the possibilities, he retaliated with a strawberry down the front of her t-shirt…and the midafternoon snack turned into something much more involved.

Later, as they snuggled together in the comfortably cool sheets of the bedroom, Gina stroked his nose thoughtfully. "So…how are you feeling about tomorrow?"

Newsie sighed, his pleasant mood dissipating with the change of subject. "I don't know. I don't think this is such a good idea."

"Why? I thought you liked your aunt?"

"She was always kind to me," Newsie agreed, but turned away to stare pensively at his framed bachelor's degree hanging over Gina's desk next to her own theatrical accomplishments. "She stood up for my going to college, when Mother wanted me to go into ordinary shop-work. But…but I doubt she's going to know who I am now. I haven't even seen her in almost ten years." His Aunt Ethel, Mother's older sister, had hung on longer than his mother had, but after Uncle Joe died, she'd moved first to Pennsylvania to live with some of Joe's relations, then back here a few years ago when her senses failed and one of her stepkids admitted her to the asylum in Queens. He paused, checking his thoughts: no, to the Happy Home for the Dangerously Senile, a "full assisted-living facility especially for people of diminished mental capacity," according to their website; no one called them asylums anymore. _Not that the nomenclature makes much of a difference,_ he mused.

Gina wrapped the arm which didn't sport a wrist-brace around his shoulders. She hadn't worn it onstage, but the doctor's orders were for her to treat the sprained joint carefully for a couple of weeks, and her Newsman had insisted she wear it at all other times, even in bed. "Well, have you really changed that much? I mean, I've watched some of your old footage from the Muppet Show…"

Newsie blushed a little. "Uh…you've…you've changed the way I think about a number of things!"

Gina laughed, kissing him. "That wasn't what I meant! Do you have any photos of yourself when you were a kid?" She'd thought it curious before now that he'd never shared any with her, even when she'd dragged out her own photo album and they'd giggled over pics of her scowling at the camera at eight… To her surprise, Newsie hesitated only a moment, then hopped out of bed and rummaged through his books on her bookshelf. She smiled at the fact he still dragged a throw pillow with him for modesty. _Oh, well. He's always going to be like that…but it IS pretty cute._

Newsie returned, slipping between the sheets once more, handing her a large picture book. "'Fish Is Fish'?" Gina wondered aloud. "Are we doing storytime?"

Newsie threw her a frown, and she grinned. He flipped carefully through the aged book, arriving in roughly the center, and gently tugged from the safety of the brightly colored pages an old black-and-white photograph. Gina held it up to the filtered sunlight through the closed linen shade. "The nurses said she's regressed; she only recalls incidents from her younger life," Newsie said quietly. "If she remembers me at all, it's probably something like that."

Gina studied the photo. "Uh…this is your mother and aunt…and you?"

"Yes."

"How old were you?"

"Er…maybe seven?"

In the picture, a severe Muppet woman with a tight hairbun and a large pointed nose posed standing, holding onto the back of a chair. Next to her, another woman, looking more serene although she shared the same nose and long face, smiled softly as she stood with hands folded over an embroidered apron. Between the two, seated on the chair, a Muppet boy with the same prominent nose and large glasses gazed seriously at the camera. He looked like a miniature version of the Newsman, even down to the brown plaid jacket. Gina bit her lip, tamping down a giggle fit. "Um. You know…I think she'll probably recognize you, Newsie."

He looked worriedly at her. "I hope you're right. Otherwise this is going to be a fairly pointless exercise."

Handing him back the photo, which he carefully set between the pages again, Gina stroked his mussed hair back from his forehead. "I'm sure she'll like having a visitor, anyway, okay?" She noticed the care with which he returned the book to its place on the shelf. "I've never seen your other family pictures."

Embarrassed, he shrugged, climbing back into her embrace. "There aren't any. Mother said things like that were vain. Um…that one was Aunt Ethel's idea. She gave me that copy. Mother didn't want it around, so I had to find a safe place for it."

"Seriously?" She stared at him; uncomfortably, he shrugged. "Newsie…why didn't she want a photo of her son, or her own sister?"

"She said she knew what we looked like, she didn't need a reminder around all the time," Newsie said, and looked away, unhappy with the discussion. "Can we…not talk about this? I feel silly."

 _Oh, my poor Newsie,_ Gina thought. She drew him into her arms; he gave in reluctantly, clearly mortified. "Okay," she agreed, and kissed him until he relaxed and kissed her back. Then she turned the kiss into something guaranteed to make him forget about feeling embarrassed at his odd family.

The Newsman shifted uncomfortably while they waited for an attendant to escort them to the dayroom, unclipping and reattaching the laminated visitors' badge to his jacket collar several times, unable to find a suitable spot for it. Gina touched his shoulder, and he glanced up at her, worried. "Relax," she murmured to him. "It's going to be fine."

"Not to, uh, grate on an unpleasant subject," Newsie muttered, "but how can you tell anymore?"

Gina shrugged. "Just a good feeling. Okay?"

He didn't feel _okay_ in the least, but he nodded, and tried to look calm and professional as the desk nurse returned. "This is Pinky…at least, we all call him that…at least, we _think_ it's a him," the nurse introduced an odd furry creature which seemed to be all mouth, eyes, squiggly antennae and long blobby body. "He's one of our interning monsters in the Monster Petting Therapy program, and he knows your aunt very well."

Newsie and Gina stared dubiously at the creature. It bobbed its head up and down, and said in a flat, harsh voice, "Yip. Eth-el. Yip. Yip. Yip yip yip yip yip."

"Take them to see Ethel, okay?" the nurse asked, smiling as the strange thing bobbed excitedly and began jerking and slithering oddly down the corridor. Gina glanced at Newsie; he met her uncertain look with one of his own. She shrugged, and hand in hand they followed the creature.

Another small monster identical to the first one, but with blue fur, hovered anxiously around the wheelchair of a wizened, rosy-cheeked Muppet woman. Her soft gray hair spilled in waves down her back; the odd monster was brushing it, a large hairbrush in each of its three skinny clawlike hands, as they walked up. "Yip," announced Pinky, "Vis-i-tors. Visitors. Yip."

"Vis-i-tors! Yip yip yip!" exclaimed the second creature, tossing the brushes aside. Both of them bobbed and swerved all around the wheelchair, talking to each other and to the old woman in the same clipped tones. "Eth-el! Vis-i-tors! Yip yip yip yip yipyipyipyip uh-huh!"

"That's nice, boys," Ethel replied, and reached down slowly to pat the second monster (Gina immediately named it Blue) on what passed for its head. It rubbed against her like a cat, seemingly happy. "Run along now. See if the watermelon's ready. We'll go down to the lake in a while."

"Lake! Yip yip!"

"Yip yip. Wa-ter-mel-on. Yip yip yip!"

The strange things hop-slid off, presumably to look for the long-ago memory of a summer picnic in Ethel's mind. Newsie stared at his aunt. _She looks so frail,_ he thought, his unconscious hope to find her as robust and cheerful as she'd been throughout his childhood dashed. Gina nudged his left shoulder, and he looked up at her. She nodded gently at him. Swallowing down his unease, he approached the chair; his aunt continued to stare with squinting eyes at a glazed window, but he doubted she saw it. Her gaze was far away, perhaps focused on the view of the lake from the summer cabin she and Uncle Joe had rented for many years, farther upstate. "Er…Aunt Ethel?"

Slowly her head turned; she smiled at him, her tiny eyes bright and happy in that wrinkled face. When she didn't speak, Newsie came closer, tentatively reaching a hand out and touching hers. "Uh…it's me. Aloysius."

"Oh, how nice," Aunt Ethel said, and gently patted his fingers. "I have a nephew with the same name."

"Right," Newsie said, casting a nervous look back at Gina. She joined him, standing a little to the side, and smiled as the old woman looked curiously up at her. "Um…this is Gina. We came to visit you."

"Sit down, sit down," Ethel said, indicating the floor. "It's nice and cool under the tree here. We'll have cake in a while…and sparklers tonight. I like sparklers." Unsure how to respond, Newsie only nodded. Ethel smiled at him. "My nephew likes those too. He runs around the lawn with them. Calls 'em fireflies."

Startled, Newsie glanced at Gina again. "Er…that's right. I remember that…"

Gina dropped to the floor, sitting crosslegged, gesturing for Newsie to sit on her lap if he wanted. It seemed strange to play along, but he accepted, admittedly reassured somewhat by her arm around his waist. "Um…Aunt Ethel…how are you doing?"

"Oh, I'm fine," the old woman said brightly. She tucked her long hair back over her ears. "I can't find my barrettes, though…have to put my hair up if I'm going to frost the cake…"

Gina opened her small purse and fished out the spare hair scrunchie she sometimes remembered to carry. She handed it to Newsie, nodding at him. Uncertainly, Newsie got to his feet again, and showed the scrunchie to his aunt. "Would you…would you like me to put your hair up for you?"

"Oh, that would be lovely," Ethel agreed.

With hands that only trembled a little, the Newsman gathered up the soft, thick waves of gray silk and wrapped the scrunchie around them in the back the way he'd watched Gina do dozens of times. "How's that?"

The old woman smiled and patted his hand again. "You're a good boy, Aloysius. Just like my nephew."

His heart caught. He swallowed with a dry throat. From behind him, Gina spoke up, "Tell me about this nephew?"

Ethel kept hold of Newsie's hand, her gaze drifting over the other chairs in the dayroom, some of them empty, some occupied by other elderly folk, but she didn't seem to see them. "Oh, he's a sweet child. Very serious. He's Flora's boy." She sighed. "Poor Flora. She's had such a hard time raising him on her own." Her eyes shifted back, locking Newsie's gaze. "You heard what happened with Flora, didn't you? How the boy's father was killed in action?"

"I thought it was falling turnips?" Newsie choked out, startled. Gina moved closer; he felt her comforting touch on his back.

"Turnips! Oh no, no!" Ethel laughed, a light, sweet sound. Newsie recalled suddenly how she sang sometimes, often while cooking or sewing, soft melodies; rarely when his mother was around. He'd always suspected Mother was jealous of Ethel's musical voice, so unlike her own harsh one. "What a silly idea!" His aunt smiled at him, then turned sorrowful. "No…that young man was a sailor, you know. An engineer, shy as they come. He was killed on one of those islands…Guam? No…I don't remember the name of it now…but he was one of those young college boys, the ones they sent ahead to figure out how to build airstrips so our planes could land. All the way to Japan. So shy, that one…" she chuckled. "Why, I don't think he ever would have gone into that back room with Flora if his friends hadn't got him a little tipsy!"

This wasn't the history he'd heard from his mother. Not even close. Newsie blinked at her, and asked hoarsely, "When…when did he and Moth…uh, when did he and Flora marry?"

Ethel straightened up, looking hard at him. "You're not from the government, are you? Snooping around asking all those questions, harassing poor Flora?"

"No, no," Newsie choked out, shaking his head emphatically. Gina held tight to him; he felt like if she hadn't been there, he'd be wobbling by now.

Relaxing, Ethel leaned toward him. "Well…now please don't let on I said this, all right? Well…they didn't, really."

Newsie stared at her in shock. Gina froze a second, then gently rubbed his back. It brought him out of his stunned silence. "They…they didn't marry?"

Ethel sighed. "Poor, poor Flora! She was _so_ ashamed! She'd never been with a boy, you know…and Daddy was so strict…it was my fault. I should have looked after her better; I _did_ warn her not to go down to the docks, that _those_ dance halls weren't respectable… She'd come to the city, you see, to live with me and Joe. Oh, things were different then…the war…everyone so romantic, everybody knowing their men might not come back, so things moved more quickly than they did back home! Flora just…well, I should have told her. I should've told her what could happen. She was so surprised, you know, when she started getting ill in the morning…"

Newsie wavered, feeling faint. Gina rose to a kneeling position, wrapping one arm around him from behind. "That must have been a shock," she commented.

"Oh, you believe it was!" Ethel laughed lightly, regretfully. "Well I knew right away what the matter was, and told her. She was so upset…Daddy would have disinherited her, of course, if word got out! So I promised to help her, and we wrote to that young man…but by then, you see, he'd been killed. So we…oh, please don't think I'm terrible!"

Newsie shook his head, speechless. With a sad look, Ethel continued, "So, we told the Navy she was his widow. She needed _something,_ to raise that child with! She couldn't find work like that! Joe helped get the papers all done…I suppose they just had to believe us. It wasn't uncommon, you know. Young people eloped quite a lot, in those years. Sometimes the records got lost."

Newsie stood there, lost, unable to think anything at all. Ethel smiled at him. "You look a lot like my nephew…what did you say your name was?"

"A-Aloysius," he stammered.

"That's so nice. I have a nephew named that," she told him, nodding.

He nodded back, at a loss what to say, what to think, how to react. He felt Gina's hand softly holding him, her warmth at his back. Ethel sighed, staring off again. "Flora should never have tried to raise him herself. She just wasn't the mothering type, sad to say. I tried…asked to keep the baby, me and Joe…we could have said it was ours…but she insisted. Took it as a duty. Can't blame her, really…she always was the one Daddy punished the most, for shirking chores…not that she did any less than the rest of us! But he was always harder on her, poor girl." She gave a heavy sigh, and looked down at Newsie's hand, still clasped between hers on her lap. "Joe and I never had children of our own, and his from his first wife's were mostly grown by then…it would have been nice, a little boy like that. A good boy like that."

Newsie felt tears streaking down his face; he stood frozen, helpless to stop them. Still in her reverie, Ethel smiled. "Do you have children? I have a nephew…he likes to play announcer, when the game shows come on. Always beats the people on 'em to the answers. Such a smart boy."

"No, no, I don't…" Newsie gulped. Suddenly he realized he didn't have _any_ memories about game shows. If anything, throughout his life, he'd never cared for them, preferring newscasts or educational shows on politics or history. Startled, he asked, "Game shows?"

"Oh, yes! _Name That Fruit: Extreme Muppet Edition_ is his favorite. He also likes that one with Guy Smiley, what's it called…"

"Er… _This Is Your Life?"_ Newsie guessed. He wondered just how jumbled up the old woman's head was. He'd always thought Guy Smiley was a pompous jerk, even as a young journalist, when the game show host had started to pop up seemingly everywhere.

"No, not that one…"

"Uhm. _My Favorite Monster? Time's Up?_ Er…" Newsie racked his brain, still certain his aunt was confusing him with someone else. _"You Win a Chicken?"_

His aunt perked up. "Yes! That's the one. He _loves_ that one! Says he's going to be a host one day. Such a bright boy."

At a loss, Newsie looked back at Gina. Concerned, seeing his distress, she brushed the tears off his face; embarrassed, he pulled out his handkerchief and set about cleaning his glasses. An idea hitting her, Gina asked, "This nephew who likes game shows…what's his name?"

"Oh, that would be Chester, of course. He's Wilfred's son," Ethel beamed at her.

If Gina hadn't been holding him tightly, Newsie would have gone down. His legs felt useless. His glasses still in his hand, his vision blurry, he stared at Aunt Ethel. "Wilfred?"

She frowned lightly at him. "You don't know Wilfred? He's my brother. Mine and Flora's. Wilfred Blyer." She gave him a puzzled look. "What did you say your name was again?"

"Aloysius," he repeated weakly, "Aloysius Crimp."

"Oh! I didn't recognize you, I'm so sorry!" Aunt Ethel cried, grasping his hand happily. "You've come back! Flora will be _so_ happy! When did your ship dock? If you'd told us, we would've come out to meet you!" Newsie stood there, overwhelmed. Excitedly, Ethel tried to get up from her wheelchair. "Flora! Flora! Your sailor's come back! Oh, this is wonderful!"

The strange monsters zipped out of nowhere, easing the old woman back into the chair. "Eth-el. Sit. Yip. Sit. Yip yip yip."

"Oh, boys, we have to go tell Flora! Her sailor boy's come home! Oh…we have to…oh…" she quieted as one of the creatures pulled the hair scrunchie out and examined it; the other one picked up a hairbrush and began stroking it gently through that rich length of grey hair.

"Brush-brush. Yip. Brush-brush."

"Stretchy. Yip. Cir-cle?" the other one questioned, pulling and twisting the scrunchie curiously. Gina took it back, causing both of them to jump, startled, yipping nervously like monotone dogs.

Ethel nodded slowly, patting the one not brushing her hair. "That's right. Good boys… Soon we'll go to the lake…good boys…"

"Good. Yip. Good. Yip yip yip."

"Eth-el good. Yip yip."

Seeing that the old woman had drifted away again, lulled by the feel of the odd creature reverently brushing her hair, Gina stood and gently pulled Newsie backward. "Newsie…come on. Come on. It's okay," she murmured in his ear.

"But I…she…but…"

Gina walked him a few steps away to a low bench and sat him down, taking his shoulders in her hands, gazing into his face. He hadn't put his glasses back on yet. She loved how he looked without them, but gently raised them to his nose anyway so he'd be able to see. He blinked at her, eyes wide. "Gina…she…my mother…she…"

"Shhh," Gina whispered, stroking his hair. "I heard."

"I can't believe this," he muttered. Gina took his anxiously clasped hands into her own, making him focus. He stared up into her soft eyes, gulping. "She wasn't…she didn't…and…and…"

Gina sighed. "Guess that's why she was so against you sleeping with me. Maybe she worried history would repeat? Or maybe it just reminded her of her shame…"

He couldn't reply, sitting there with a completely shocked expression still. Gina leaned over and kissed him. "You know it doesn't bother me, right?" she asked. "I mean, except the part where your mother obviously _lied_ to you. _That_ bothers me. A lot."

"Same here," he said, his voice rough.

Hoping to drag him out of the worst of these revelations to the best of them, Gina touched his chin, coaxing him to meet her gaze again. "But you have some amazing news now."

"I'd call that more shocking than –"

"You have a cousin," she pointed out gently.

He stared dumbfounded at her. She could almost hear the gears ticking over, forcing his thoughts to shift. Finally he blinked. "I…I do?"

"Your mother and aunt's _brother_ had a kid. Another nephew. Chester…Chester Blyer?" Thinking it over, piecing together all his aunt had said, Newsie slowly nodded. Gina smiled at him. "So, Intrepid Journalist, feel up to a little genealogy?"

His eyes widened, turning bright. Gina kept smiling, waiting. That smile, he thought, was the most wonderful thing he'd ever seen. _She's right,_ he realized. "I…I have family," he said, astounded by the idea.

Gina grinned, and kissed him; he returned it thoroughly, and she hummed appreciation, her hand sliding over his chest. He broke away first, the amazing news hitting home. "I have _family_ out there somewhere!" he exclaimed.

She nuzzled his nose. "Sounds like it. What say we go find them?"

He gave her a worried look. "You…you don't mind that I'm…I guess this means I'm…not really a Crimp? I'm a…a Blyer?"

"You're my Newsie," Gina said firmly. "And that's all I care about. Got it?"

"Got it," he murmured, and then his tongue was busy showing her how much he appreciated her…how much he loved her.

How much, in short, he loved being hers.

 _The end_


End file.
